What the Thunder Said
by Mrs. PDR Vandertramp
Summary: Severus Snape, wrenched from his summer holiday, must choose between conscience and duty. And of course, no good deed goes unpunished. PG-13 at the moment, though the rating may go up in the future. (Chapter 8 is up! Please read and review!)
1. The Calm Before the Storm

**What the Thunder Said**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, and creations belong to the revered Ms. Rowling. The rest is mine.

_My friend, blood shaking my heart   _

_The awful daring of a moment's surrender   _

_Which an age of prudence can never retract   _

_By this, and this only, we have existed_

_Which is not to be found in our obituaries   _

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider   

_Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor   _

_In our empty rooms._

-T.S. Eliot

Chapter One: The Calm Before the Storm

Contrary to popular belief, Severus Snape did not spend his summer holidays locked away in the dank dungeons of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Neither did he consume small infants for breakfast or brew mysterious poisons or ravish village virgins in his free time. Dully enough, in the realm of All Things Snape, Hogwarts rumor was generally wildly unfounded.

However, to some, the truth would seem far more outrageous than mere whispered suppositions. Severus was on holiday.

Of course, it was all by order of the Headmaster. Eyes twinkling—and a bit threatening—he had all but packed his Potion Master's suitcases. When Albus struck upon something he liked, he snatched the idea and ran.

Albus had a cousin—daughter of his mother's sister, a woman of the Braeman side of the family—who owned a small cottage in America. There was a strange sort of history to the cottage, one that Severus was largely uninterested in and one that Albus was all too happy to explain. At length. 

The house served its purpose beautifully, all other things aside. The cousin was half-Muggle, and her discarded cabin sat on a lonely island in the Puget Sound. It was too cold for swimming; this did not bother Severus at all, luckily, as he had little inclination to swim in the first place. From the kitchen window he could look out over the evergreens, study the snow-capped mountains in the distance, and watch the blue-grey water. A few discreet flicks of the wand, and the dusty cottage had been transformed into a perfectly comfortable sanctuary.

For the Headmaster—whose silvery head occasionally appeared in Severus's fireplace—Snape was all frowns and curses. ("How do you expect me to get anything done in this godforsaken wilderness?" he had recently snapped. Albus had _giggled_. "I don't," he quipped, and disappeared back into the flames with a small _pop_.) However, most secretly, Severus Snape was adoring his vacation.

Albus, as usual, had been right. Even Severus knew this. The last year had been even worse than usual; one horror after another, a series of rapid-fire flights in and out of the Dark Lord's grasp. Severus still could not decide if he was pleased or horrified that, after those years of distrust and wariness, he had once again been selected as a confidant—a favorite right-hand, a beloved—of Voldemort's.

There were some things that Severus would never speak of, not even to Albus.

He had told Voldemort the truth about this vacation: that Albus had required it. And frankly, beyond Hogwart's walls, Severus was of little use to the Dark Lord. So, for two blissful months, the Dark Mark had been quiet.

For that alone, Severus was once again indebted to his Headmaster. He was cherishing his weeks of cloistered peace, and trying to forget that the end of the summer would all too soon be upon him.

He had discovered, locked away in one of Cousin Isabella's closets, an intriguing old record player. He was not one usually taken with Muggle contraptions—with the acute exception of Muggle literature—but this was something entirely different.

Now, in the second week of August, under the warm northwest sun, Severus sat on his sun-bleached deck in an old wooden rocking chair. The record player, propped on the windowsill, sent out a faint murmur of quiet Vivaldi.

His students—some of them probably, at that very moment, measuring the inches in their assigned scrolls on Veritaserum—would not have recognized him at that moment. Snape, in faded blue jeans? Silky hair, tied neatly back from his face? The faint glow of health beginning in his cheeks?

Impossible.

T.S. Eliot's _The Waste Land_—well worn, Snape's copy—was open on his lap. He shut the book decisively; it did not do to remind himself, yet again, of the despairing soul. He had time enough for that when he donned those achingly heavy robes, and fell back into the frightening persona he was losing himself in, and returned to the double life.

He closed his black eyes, folded his hands over his flat stomach, and gently set to rocking in that old rocking chair, worn smooth by those who had come before. Severus Snape was clinging with all his might to his fleeting empyrean.

~*~*~*~

He returned from his evening walk to find a head in his hearth.

Albus: "Severus. You look well."

There was an edge to his voice that Severus did not like. At all. He shrugged out of his Muggle jacket and sat down heavily beside the fireplace; this was not the gleeful greeting that had met him a previous visits. Besides, a bit of quick math revealed the obvious; Albus was generally not given to catching up on correspondence at three in the morning. That annoying pink nightcap was still stuffed over wild white hair.

"What's wrong?"

Dumbledore heaved a heavy sigh, and for a moment, the Headmaster looked older than ever, than he had ever seemed to Severus. "I hate to cut your vacation short, Severus. I've seen what a change it's brought in you. I—"

Severus cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. He rose, and turned away from the fire. "Give me a moment to collect my things and secure the cottage. I will Apparate back in ten minutes. Expect me in your office in fifteen."

There was a brief sigh, and then the telltale _pop_. Severus stood for a moment, hands shaking. He closed his eyes wearily. He spent a strange, solitary moment in the middle of the room, eyes closed, shutting out the warmth and remaining light.

Snape's features then molded once again into hard, icy lines he had taken on for so very long. He dug his robes out of the closet—dark, voluminous things, they were—and set to work.

His brief stay in paradise was over, and it was time to return to Hogwarts: his home and his prison, his saving grace and his eventual doom. His decayed hole among the mountains.

He locked the record player back in Isabella's dusty closet, erased any sign of his passing, and promptly disappeared.

In later times, as he lay awake in the dark and cold and gloom, he would convince himself that the brief Elysium was but a dream. It was easier, that way, to return to the sad fragments of a broken life. For those brief weeks, though, it had been rather pleasant imagining himself whole.

****

**A/N: **More to follow! I know this is a rather short beginning, and I realize that there is very little meat or character delving going on here. More to follow, I promise!

Briefly, the inspiration for the title is from T.S. Eliot's _The Waste Land_. "What the Thunder Said" is the last of the five parts of this poem. The "decaying hold among the mountains" reference is from here as well. Excellent poem, magnificent poet.

Adieu!

-PDR


	2. A Gathering of Clouds

What the Thunder Said

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, places, and creations belong to the revered Ms. Rowling. The rest is mine.****

Chapter 2: A Gathering of Clouds

It was raining in Britain, and Severus was convinced that Hogwarts had never seen a colder summer. His cloak stuffed haphazardly in his miniaturized trunk, he merely gritted his teeth and began the long hike up the hill towards the castle. _It must be the castle_, he thought sourly; sure enough, upon setting foot on British soil, that customary Snape temper was eking back into consciousness. He stomped a bit more quickly. Hogsmeade was dark behind him; logically so, of course. That at least offered some small comfort. Whatever emergency had called him back to the Headmaster's side had not yet touched the sleepy village.

He rubbed his forearm fitfully. Whatever emergency had called him back to the Headmaster's side would likely mean another summon as well.

There was another figure tripping lightly up the path to the Hogwarts castle. He recognized the cloaked shape—and that no-nonsense scamper—rather well. Snape, his hair loose now, stringy from the rain, and scattered about his eyes, scowled even more darkly.

Ah, how he missed acutely the solitude of Isabella's roost. And he channeled that entire ache into being his most ornery yet.__

"McGonagall," he snapped in acknowledgement as the Deputy Headmistress caught up with him. The shrewd, aging woman gave him a curt nod and returned the cursory greeting. Strangely enough, the two had always gotten along well. _One of the great bloody mysteries of the new world_, Snape thought to himself irritably. Her beady eyes flitted to his forearm, and Severus snorted. "Nothing yet."

The two—neither speaking of their interrupted holidays, or the reasons for such an untimely interruption—sped off towards the castle as the skies opened up.

~*~*~*~

The castle was never truly silent. There were always the whispers of the permanent inhabitants ringing in the halls. A few of the portraits woke blurrily to note the passing of the two professors. One of the suits of armor rustily stirred before settling back into a metallic slumber. And Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, was upon them in the foyer. She rubbed up against Snape's leg. (Like her master, she got along well with Snape; all three shared an uncanny amount of joy in making the lives of the students as difficult as possible. Severus suspected that their reasons for this unpleasant occupation were widely varied, but Filch had often proven himself a helpful accomplice.)

As it was, Mrs. Norris had to scoot out of the way—and fast—to avoid being trampled into the purple runner in the entrance hall. McGonagall, refusing to fall behind or loose an inch of ground to Severus, was similarly hurrying. The two left a trail of mud and cold rainwater in their wake.

McGonagall beat him to the gargoyle. "Ton-Tongue Toffee," she breathlessly spit out. Snape grunted in response. McGonagall gave him a withering look and led the way up the winding staircase. She did not continue up to the spherical office; she ducked off at a small alcove, tapped a stone in the wall, and shuffled into the Headmaster's private quarters.

  
Albus was slumped in a chair by the fire, which merely held a few unenthusiastic golden flames. A bad sign, that. Even in his less cheerful moods, Albus generally enchanted a round of colored fireworks or silver starbursts.

He looked up as the two entered the comfortable living room and nodded. "I've called back the others as well," the old wizard explained. "I'm rather glad, though, that you two arrived first. I will need some help in breaking the news to the rest."

With the exception of Severus, the "others" were on a different sort of vacation. The advent of the year had brought an extended round of attacks from Voldemort. The Dark ranks grew ambitious, and Albus had dispatched the majority of his loyal Order to various posts for added protection. McGonagall had been in London, of course. Hooch was in France—"studying Quidditch history" at the international headquarters there. Sprout was visiting family in Berlin, and so forth. There had been stirrings throughout Europe that worried the Headmaster.

This was something traumatic indeed if Dumbledore was recalling all of his agents.

There was an uncomfortable pause as Albus returned to studying his mundane flames. McGonagall conjured up a pot of tea and poured him a cup, which he promptly ignored in favor of the tin of lemon sherbets in his pocket. Neither McGonagall nor Snape spoke; they simply seated themselves in the other two overstuffed, mismatched chairs beside the fireplace and waited in the semblance of patience. 

"There's been another Taking," Dumbledore said at last.

The "Takings," as they called them, had started in the autumn. Prominent resistance fighters would disappear—for a period that varied from two days to two months—only to reappear either dead or insane. Inevitably, some caved to the overwhelming pressures that were applied to their fragile selves, and untold amounts of intelligence had been lost.

Severus Snape wasn't a man given to believing in miracles. Still, he thought it nothing short of miraculous that his spy status had not yet been divulged. Luckily, oh-so-luckily, none of the Order of the Phoenix had been Taken yet.

He felt his stomach tighten apprehensively. "Who?" In spite of himself, his voice was a rough, angry croak. McGonagall, in an uncharacteristic moment of sympathy, patted his forearm with a bony hand. Snape brushed her sympathies aside with a growl and rose from his seat. He paced over to the fireplace, gripped the mantle tightly with both hands, and cursed under his breath.

Minerva, in turn, rose from her seat as well. She was tactful when she wanted to be, that woman. "I'll go to greet the others," she managed calmly. Primly settling her waterlogged cloak on her shoulders, she gave Dumbledore a fleeting glance, and headed towards the door.

The Headmaster and his spy were left alone.

Severus rubbed his forearm more strongly still. "One of the Order?" he snarled. He was studying with intense interest the dancing elf figurines on Dumbledore's mantle. Two were doing a pleasant little jig. He tried to steady his breathing.

"Yes and no." The Headmaster seemed to be weighing something in his head, some decision.

A miserable, self-loathing laugh. "Hell, Albus, what is that supposed to mean?" He could feel the strength ebbing from his veins. Six years he had played his dangerous game. Six years.

There was another pause for deliberation. Finally, at length, the old wizard sighed. "Has he called you yet?" Snape merely nodded, rolled up his left sleeve, and studied the angry black mark. He felt the bile rising in his throat. "You have to leave soon, then?" Another nod. "I won't tell you more, then, my son."

Severus closed his eyes, the blood draining from his face.

"Know that whatever decision you must make tonight, I trust and support you."

The chair creaked as Dumbledore rose. He laid a heavy hand, a tangible warmth, on Severus's shoulder. "Go now."

~*~*~*~

Through the fireplace, the internal Floo Network, down to the dungeons. The robe and mask were kept ready, tucked away under careful wards. On with the apparel of the Dark Lord, through the trap door, down the long tunnel. Albus had built the throughway for him soon after he made his return to Voldemort's side six years ago.

Above him, he could imagine the other professors—Sprout, optimistic little Flitwick, bright-eyed Vector—trudging through the rain up to the castle. He imagined their worry-lined faces, but he saw, beneath the lines, the inherent goodness.

They had clean pasts, all of them. In his mind's eye, they glowed with that unblemished light. They had redeemed themselves a thousand times over.

Up the dark stairs, pulling the mask over his features, and out into the grove of gnarled trees on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Just beyond the Hogwarts line. He was not a man given to sentimentality, so he did not look back over his shoulder at the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He knew all too well, though, that this was likely to be his last journey to Voldemort's side.

_"One of the Order?"_

_"Yes and no."_

He closed his eyes, tapped his wand to the burning mark on his forearm, and Apparated. Like clockwork, he appeared at Voldemort's side, dropped to his knees, and kissed the Dark Lord's hem.

He waited, then. It was only a matter of time, if whoever had been Taken had spilled his secrets. And yet, the six syllables of death were not spoke, Cruciatus was not applied, and Severus found himself being lifted to his feet.

Oh, how he hated that cold, silky touch.

"Dear Severus" --the voice like ice-- "I was wondering when that old fool would call you back from your holiday."

Severus lowered his eyes and smiled slightly, slyly. "Yes, pity that. A lost summer, my Lord." Voldemort chuckled in response. "But I will have you know that whatever you have managed most recently, my Lord, Dumbledore is devastated. This is a true blow to his morale."

He knew how to ingratiate himself with the Dark Lord. He had returned six years ago, and it had taken him only two to win himself a spot in the inner circle. Another year had passed, and he was a favorite. Now he stood equal with Lucius Malfoy.

"Good, good. The Taking? Yes." Voldemort smirked. "And it was well planned, too. I must give that Malfoy spawn credit for that, at least." _Draco's to be credited, then_. "We've held her, without notice, for nearly three weeks."

_Her._

"We'll have time enough to talk of that soon, though," he hissed, red eyes glinting bright in the darkness. They were very much alone, as they often were when Severus was called. The Potions Master steeled himself privately. A sharp finger traced the line of Severus's throat, the angle of his jaw. "I have to welcome back my favorite Death Eater from a _most _unfortunate vacation."

Oh, indeed, there were some things that Severus would never tell Dumbledore about his meetings with Voldemort. There were worse things than the Unforgivables.

~*~*~*~

The next meeting was far more formal. Voldemort's moods were as ever-shifting as his strange red eyes. Still, Severus stood beside the Dark Lord's empty chair, waiting for the wizard to arrive. He walked a very fine line. The chambers were silent, and he found himself thinking back to a time when he would have been overjoyed rather than horrified to find himself here.

He had been young, and he had been angry, and he had been easily swayed in the path of darkness. He had returned to Hogwarts, blood on his hands and guilt heavy on his mind, two years after graduation. The Dark Lord had not yet fallen at the hands of an infantile Harry Potter, and at the time, it looked as thought Voldemort's reign would go unchallenged.

And yet, Severus Snape brandished his Mark and his guilt at the feet of Albus Dumbledore.

It had been the girl that had weighed heaviest on his mind, and in the end, had driven him to Dumbledore. She had been in his year at school, a pretty little Muggle-born thing with strange violet eyes and flaxen hair. He recalled her being quite intelligent. She had been a Ravenclaw with a lilting laugh and a knack for spells, and a close friend of an auburn-haired beauty who would become Head Girl.

And that friendship had been the death of her. He didn't know the beginning of her story, but the end replayed itself in his mind all too often. She still haunted his dreams; he'd wake in a cold sweat, sick to his stomach with the reality of his actions.

His ruthless manner and willingness had set Severus apart from the other Death Eaters. He had been young and eager to please, true, but he had been cleverer than most. There was a heartlessness about him that Voldemort had admired. Tom Riddle took a liking to young Severus Snape immediately.

And yet, he had brandished his Mark and his actions for Albus Dumbledore to inspect. For reasons Severus still didn't understand, he had been forgiven and, more astonishing, trusted.

Over twenty years later, he found himself still in Voldemort's inner circle, though under far more dangerous terms. It had been a hard handful of years, convincing Voldemort again of his faithfulness. The worry that now lurked incessantly in Albus Dumbledore's eyes was not unfounded.

He wrenched himself back to the present. Severus, with his attention to detail, made a quick and able spy. 

Malfoy had entered the arena. He too stepped forward, taking his place beside the grotesque throne.

"Lucius," Snape said tersely, meeting the other man's eye pale eye. Both prickled noticeably.

Lucius Malfoy snickered at the Hogwarts Potions Master. "A bit late, aren't we, Severus?" There was a malicious twang to his drawl; the words put Severus on edge. He obviously did not allude to the present meeting, and there was meaningfulness behind what that weasel spoke. "Tsk, tsk. I just hope that you are not too late to enjoy what's left. The Dark Lord thought little of your… vacation." Severus answered with only a cool glare, and shrugged his shoulders lightly. "I hope you have not angered him?"

"He seems to value information most, as I'm sure you know. What have you uncovered for our Lord this time, Malfoy? Another faulty Ministry report?" Snape sneered. The two glared at each other for a minute, and Severus could almost see Malfoy formulating a scathing reply behind those glinting grey eyes. The two had never been on good terms. They had been recruited together, and had both risen high in Voldemort's ranks; neither trusted the other, though. That, coupled with the fierce competition that lent itself to their… careers, left them on wary terms.

Their verbal assaults were waylaid as the door swung open, held by a groveling servant, and a pair of glinting crimson eyes glowed in the dark doorway.

Both Severus and Lucius were on their knees, instantly, as was the mass of shadowy figures.

Severus played a perilous game, but he intended to win.

Voldemort sank into his glittering chair, gestured for his minions to rise, and looked to Malfoy. "She is still alive, then?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort chuckled; it was more of a heathen hiss than a laugh, and the mirth there was dark, pitiless. Severus, had he been less schooled in this dangerous masquerade, would have shivered. Instead he quirked a curious eyebrow, lips curling in sinister amusement.

"This is the one you spoke of, my Lord?" Voldemort nodded, reptilian eyes narrowing further.

His stomach knotted uncomfortably, but he managed a look of quiet interest. Images of the little golden Ravenclaw flickered behind his eyes. "The one you've Taken. Three weeks, you said? Well done, my Lord."

"Indeed. We've reason to believe that she holds some very useful information." Severus arched an eyebrow, right on cue. He nodded slowly. Voldemort grimaced, however, and glanced away. "I'm afraid, though, that she's putting up more fight than we'd reckoned for. I'm loathe to question to her myself, but the little bitch hasn't so much as spoken a word for any of the… others." A flicker of displeasure appeared on his eerie features. Those red eyes glinted in the darkness. Snape felt an inkling, niggling reminder at the back of his mind, a small feeling of dread building in his middle.

He knew all to well what manner of questioning had been employed to wrench the information from that poor girl. That she was alive, much less resisting, after three weeks was remarkable.

"We will finish tonight." Voldemort decided. He folded those icy hands—Severus turned his mind away from the hands—over his stomach. "I am sure your expertise will be greatly appreciated, Severus. You have been given very few excuses to practice these last years. That will be remedied." He fingered the wand at his side anxiously. Beside him, Malfoy trembled with ill-suppressed excitement. He gestured to one of the robed figures beside the door.

"Have her brought in, Malfoy."

The pudgy doorman, one hand gleaming, reached for the heavy gate. Voldemort gave Severus a flickering glance. His voice was low. "You will enjoy this, my pet."

Ah, but he was in trouble now. The wheels of his mind were working frantically. He had managed to avoid too much hands-on work after his return to Voldemort's ranks; he was simply an informant. A double-agent, though Voldemort had not yet found him out. He tried, rather frantically, to think of an excuse for avoiding whatever poor wretch came tripping towards him, all the while maintaining a look of suppressed eagerness.

The way he saw it, he had three options. First, he could do exactly as he had been asked, and wring the information out of the woman somehow. His … skills, as Voldemort so gently put it … were strong indeed. This, however, was not a simple matter of frightening first years. Severus repressed a small shudder. Violet flashed in his mind's eye.

If she were lucky, she would be thrown back like most of the other Taken; insane, yes, and near death. But still alive, perhaps.

Second, he could simply fail where any number of Death Eaters before him had failed. It would be a dangerous charade, though, with the Dark Lord and Lucius Malfoy and a gaggle of Death Eaters watching over his shoulder. Besides, as Voldemort had said, this ended tonight. 

And there was no mistaking what that meant.

And third… he could leave. Hightail it out of there like a bat out of hell. But that meant giving up what he had worked at for six years, ending a crucial link in the war effort … and putting Hogwarts at the forefront of the fight.

Dumbledore's words came drifting back to him, prophetic now as understanding set in. 

_"Know that whatever decision you must make tonight, I trust and support you."_

A perfect golden head appeared in the doorway, surrounded by the folds of a black cloak. Draco Malfoy's cheeks were uncommonly flushed in that milky pale complexion. His smile was all too telling. He made a short bow, lips tweaked with self-satisfaction. And then he led in his near-broken capture, three weeks worth of praise and pleasure buoying the young man's spirits. 

It was not a woman that had been Taken, at least in Severus's eye. It was a girl, a mere wisp of a naked, bruised thing. He observed her for a moment with hidden dread, with cool, academic curiosity.

A tangled mess of brown hair—vaguely familiar—covered her eyes as she studied the flagstones, weak and wobbly. She was obviously supported by some spell or another; she looked ready to collapse. "Bring her forward," Voldemort hissed. She seemed to float forward, and some unseen hand pushed her to her knees.

And yet it was of her own volition that she raised her trembling chin and studied her captors with large, unreadable chocolate eyes. Perhaps it was the eyes. Perhaps it was that he had seen her before—often, really—in these same dungeon-like settings. But recognition was upon him instantly.

_Oh, Albus._

"Hermione Granger."

**A/N:**

I know! Before you say ANYTHING, let me tell you that this is not headed where you think it's headed. I've been working on this plot for some time, and I've been told before that here it faintly resembles PtQ. I thought this up and wrote the preliminary draft before I even read PtQ. So there. Pfft. *g*

Tell me what you think! I adore feedback.


	3. The Fog Rolls In

What the Thunder Said

Chapter Three: The Fog Rolls In

Oh, dear. She was in trouble now. Funny how her mind had stayed blissfully, torturously intact all these weeks; sanity came and went, but this moment was definitely one of her more sane. _Pity._ She knew that voice, behind the shadows of his mask and robe. And her mind clicked back a few years—six, to be precise, and she ever-was.

Cornelius Fudge had left, and Hermione, pushed up against the windowsill, was studying the toes of her sensible shoes. She felt invisible; she lifted those eyes to study the buzzing room, to readjust her view of the world.

_Severus Snape, a Death Eater. _Ex-Death Eater, _Hermione reminded herself. Lemon sherbets and Santa Clause eyes aside, Dumbledore was a wise man; she trusted him. And yet she felt herself sway at the sight of the ugly, faint Dark Mark. Even if he was an ex-Death Eater, that Mark meant only one thing._

_Logically, at one time or another, the "ex" had known no place in that title._

_Dumbledore was speaking, quietly, faintly, to the Potions Master. "Severus, you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready … if you are prepared …" He was, apparently. And he left, ashen-faced, eyes flickering strangely._

_Something tugged at Hermione's quick mind; even at a mere fifteen, she was vaguely aware of some deeper plot there. However, something else—something more immediately important—caught her attention. A beetle was resting on the windowsill._

She was fully convinced that he was a spy for Dumbledore; she was a bit peeved at herself, truth be told, that she hadn't seen it earlier. 

She was also fully convinced that she would be sacrificed to preserve his cover. 

She had fought—and fought hard—for three weeks now. She had lost track of time for most of it, simply focusing all of her being on not speaking a word. Now she knew, with strange certainty, that her test had ended. And part of her thanked her mother's God, thanked every being in the universe, thanked even this dark gathering for letting the end come at last. It was a terrifying thing for that once-so-optimistic little creature to want nothing more than to be finished.

Her lips parted slightly, chapped and sore and bruised. "Please." Her voice was a whisper, a croak. She felt her strength ebbing from her; it took great effort to keep her head aloft. She finally succumbed to that heavy gravity, slumping against her invisible bonds. Every inch of her body ached, inside and out. She threw the last remnants of her potency into keeping her secrets locked safely away.

_Granger_, that little voice called out. _Granger, for heaven's sake, just don't _cry.

"Please, just let me die." And her eyelids—_funny_, she thought, _I don't remember them ever being so very heavy_—eventually drooped shut.

All in all, she was very calm about the whole thing.

~*~*~*~

Malfoy the Younger had stepped back, and at Voldemort's prompted, he released the invisible bonds that held that pathetic Mudblood in place. She crumpled on the cold floor, shivering wretchedly. The rest of the assembly stirred impatiently, shifting for a better view of the little witch; it disgusted Severus. He could hear the quickening of breath and heartbeat in the cavernous chamber.

"Please, just let me die."

He felt the bile rising in his throat. He had to move. He had to say something. He had to act.

And so he did; a most scholarly man, Severus Snape was trying with all his might to _not think._ He managed a vicious sneer, though, and descended from the dais to peer down at the sad fragments of an old student. He nudged her with the toe of his black leather boot; she whimpered.

_Severus, you are going to hell. _He was not given to belief in Muggle religion, but this he understood as true. He fingered his wand in his pocket and drew it smoothly. "Crucio," he announced nonchalantly.

Granger's shrill cry shook him to his very bones.

Before hell, he was going to Azkaban. He coolly watched the young woman writhe for a few moments before murmuring a chilly, "Finite Incantatum." She laid still, eyes glazed over slightly, dry and empty.

"Miss Granger?" he prompted. She said nothing. He wasn't sure, but he imagined he saw a flicker of something behind those thin eyelids, but it was gone. She twitched, and then was like stone was again. "Miss Granger, answer me!" He prodded her with the tip of his wand—white hot, on command. She did not respond.

_To hell in a hand basket. _He couldn't remember where he'd heard that saying before, but it struck him as strangely amusing.

He heaved an ill-tempered sigh, perfectly pitched.

"Really, Malfoy," this he directed at Draco, "you didn't leave me much to … enjoy." Draco grinned in spite of himself, but Severus looked annoyed. Very annoyed. He gave Granger a more solid kick; she cried out before falling still and silent once more. Snape whirled on Draco, folding his arms crossly, his voice an edged snarl.

"She's insane, you imbecile, if ever I saw a half-wit. You've ruined her." He returned to circling Hermione. "I'm sure she provided a good bit of fun, but she should have been left to more capable hands. If she ever had anything useful to share—which I highly doubt in the first place—we won't be finding out any time soon. You know these Mudbloods… always weak."

"Look here, Snape!" Draco, now, was furious. "I happen to know for a fact--" And then, strangely enough, he bit back whatever he was going to say. This struck Severus as immensely odd; Draco, both in and out of school, had never been one to think before speaking. He gave a small nod, those lips twisting slightly, and conceded to Snape. "Perhaps," he said, voice tight, "you are right, though."

Severus waved a hand dismissively. "Of course I am." She was never at any of the Order meetings. She was always a favorite of that old crackpot and the other teachers—a fact of which I am perfectly sure you're aware, Mr. Malfoy—but never anything more than a pet. And I highly doubt that the girl could have cooked up anything intelligent if she tried. She was empty knowledge; book facts. You knew that, Malfoy."

He spat on Granger's crumpled, spoiled little body and turned away. "She disgusts me."

Voldemort had been watching with muted interest. Severus inclined his head to the Dark Lord and returned, sourly, to his position beside the throne. "I'd advise you send her back, my Lord, as a warning to others. Let them see for themselves their…" his voice twisted with disdain, "… brightest little star, Potter's playmate. Let them see what became of Hogwart's student of the century."

And the defense rested.

There was a look, though, in Voldemort's ethereal eyes that Severus did not like. Something calculating behind that red sheen. "Insane, you think?" he asked quietly. Severus had no choice but to stick to his bluff. He nodded firmly.

"Yes, my Lord. Most definitely."

"And you think she had nothing to say in the first place, Severus?"

Oh, dear. He knew something. He knew something that Severus did not. The Potions Master bravely, without hesitation, nodded his affirmation. "Most likely. I am certain of it."

"Ah." There was a long pause. Severus would later swear his heart stopped beating. The evening's second revelation came crashing over him with thundering force.

Merlin save me. The Professor recognized a test when he saw one.

They knew something. They knew something he didn't know. Malfoy's smile was growing more steadily.

Oh, but something had happened during his vacation. 

"Kill her, then, Severus. Finish her."

His fingers moved to the pocket of his robe automatically. "As you wish, my Lord." He let his lips curl with pleasure; for Severus-Snape-the-faithful-Death-Eater, killing was a pleasure, an often-denied, rare treat. He fingered his wand lovingly, drawing it out of his pocket.

His mind was working frantically. He knew what he should do: kill her, and be quick and merciful and protect the tenuous link in this great fight against the Dark. Dumbledore had told him all too often that he, Severus Snape, was their strongest defense against Voldemort's attack.

And he had all but given him permission to do what needed to be done.

He felt the syllables forming on his lips, and then he hesitated.

"Kill her, Snape." There was an edge to Voldemort's voice; the endearments were gone. "Kill her now."

He paused, wand raised, pointed directly at Granger's limp form. He opened his mouth with every intention of speaking the third Unforgivable. 

The spell he shouted, however, reverberating with all the strength of his lungs, was a far cry different. "Ella disappareo Hogwarts!" Hermione obediently blinked out of sight. There was a dull pause, an uncomprehending stumble of the masses, and then the sound of every wand in the room being drawn. A furious roar was building.

He was out of his fucking mind. If he was leaving—and he obviously was—he might as well do it right. He sent a swirl of fire and green death upon the closest robed figures, and then closed his eyes tightly.

"Disappareo Hogwarts!"

When he appeared just outside the gates, Hermione was waiting for him behind the sheen of heavy rain.

A gaggle of Death Eaters Apparated almost instantly. Scooping up Granger in a quick motion, Severus lunged for the gates. They slammed shut behind him instantly. Staggering towards the castle, muttering a constant stream of obscenities, he simply hoped that Hogwarts's defenses would hold.

~*~*~*~

Dumbledore met him in the foyer. It was precisely seven o'clock; the large clock was singing away cheerfully.

"They know." Severus's voice was heavy.

"Ah." He led the way towards the Infirmary, little old legs surprisingly quick. Severus studiously avoided looking at the frail bundle in his arms; his obscenities, now limited to his mind, grew even more heated. And as an outlet for his rage, he turned upon the silent Miss Granger.

He cursed Hermione Granger. He cursed Hermione Granger's parents. He cursed the whole of Magical Great Britain, if it included Hermione Granger.

Six years, down the drain. And on top of everything else, he had oh-so-skillfully managed to bring the entirety of the Death Eaters down upon Hogwarts.

They did not speak on the way to the Infirmary, which was probably for the best. Severus did not trust himself to open his mouth again, and truthfully, he was secretly thankful for Dumbledore's unquestioning demeanor. That would come later, he supposed. They reached the Infirmary with no further mishaps. 

Poppy was waiting anxiously beside the door. The middle-aged mediwitch leapt to her feet the moment the door creaked open. Severus's suspicions were confirmed; apparently, Albus's foresight remained unblemished. 

Snape dropped his burden on the nearest bed, not at all gently, and stalked without a word from the room.

~*~*~*~

Severus Snape had surprisingly comfortable chambers. They had been untouched in his absence, but they remained perfectly kempt and spotless. The Potions professor did not, as most students speculated, live in a dark dungeon of a room. While his rooms were adjacent to his classrooms, they were tucked in the side of the hill on Hogwart's east side. Windows and skylights had been skillfully carved out of the earth. The largest, fitted with an elegant window seat, looked out over the lake. The giant squid was frolicking merrily in the late summer sun; peering out over the grounds, however, Severus noted that the castle was eerily silent. Even over the holidays, Hagrid could always be heard, if not seen.

He suspected that the great majority of the faculty, all returned from their "holidays," was guarding the gates. Even that bumbling idiot of a groundskeeper would be fiercely brandishing his ridiculous pink umbrella.

  
Severus spent the majority of the morning pacing over the rich oriental carpet in his living room.

He was a liability at the school, that much was certain. Dumbledore would likely offer him asylum, but Severus knew that he could not stay within the Hogwarts boundaries forever. As long as he rested on Hogwarts grounds, the perimeter of the school would be closely watched by irate Death Eaters. Voldemort, after all, was not known for his leniency towards turncoats. The results for Hogwarts—and, of course, comfortable Hogsmeade—were immeasurable. 

So he couldn't stay.

And that left the question dangling over Severus's head, taunting in its impossibility: where to go?

He sat down heavily on the window seat, his back to the glass panes. He rested his hands on his knees for a long time, his fingers gripping flesh so tightly that he would later discover ugly bruises along his legs. Six years of hard work and pain and unspeakable weariness, and he had undone it all in his dim-witted inability to speak six syllables.

He moved his hands to his head, his spine curving gracefully as he slumped into despair. Resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his large hands, Severus lost himself in the spiral of implications. 

Hengist help him, he had royally screwed things up this time.

He finally slept, but only with a bit of help. He methodically mixed asphodel in an infusion of wormwood, brewing a strong Draught of the Living Death. He hated the taste of the iridescent liquid; he always had. He gritted his teeth though and made a solitary toast as he sat on the edge of his high, firm mattress.

"To ill destinies," he bit off with a laugh, and then he downed the potion and welcomed oblivion.

~*~*~*~

They really had no idea what was going on.

Dumbledore had waited until the Order was quietly huddled in his beautiful office—illuminated, in the dark hours of the morning, by a steady glow—to break the news. Hermione Granger had been Taken. And the true outrage was that they had missed this crucial bit of information for three entire weeks, and that—adding insult to injury—the Ministry had been the first to pick up on Granger's deplorable state. Poppy had cried a little, Minerva had been visibly shaken, and little Flitwick had turned purple in his indignant fury.

Hermione Granger—dear Head Girl, favorite student, precious, brilliant Hermione—Taken!

And then Dumbledore had proceeded to tell them why Miss Granger had been snatched from her comfortable flat in Cambridge. Yes, they had all agreed, it was imperative that the retrieved her, and quickly. So for a good while, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for Severus to return. Hope, in some more perceptive cases, for Severus to return.

And then they intended to go from there.

Around seven o'clock in the morning, all hell broke loose. Death Eaters, on their very doorstep! Hermione Granger, poor dear heart, in a wretched state of affairs. Severus had disappeared—to his chambers, Dumbledore breathlessly assured a worried Minerva. The Death Eaters were relatively easy to disperse, though none of the faculty doubted that the castle was being closely watched. 

It was the Ministry, and the impertinent reporters from The Daily Prophet, that proved themselves most pesky.

For the most part, however, the teachers had no idea what was going on. Dumbledore was making himself scarce; he had stolen away Poppy, barred any other visitors from the Infirmary, and he had locked himself up in his office to think. In the afternoon of the second day, he reappeared briefly in the teachers' lounge.

"Someone wake Severus," he said simply, firmly. "Send him to my office." He paused. "Do not, under any circumstances, leave this room after that. I want all of you to stay here until I send word."

A few of the teachers, all anxiously gathered in their symphony of chairs, popped up eagerly. "And… Miss Granger, Headmaster?" He had already disappeared, however, and their questions were left unanswered.

They drew lots, comically enough, to decide which unlucky soul would have to wake the sleeping dragon. They had pieced together—well, Minerva had sharply pointed out—the great likelihood that their Potions Master had unveiled his allegiance in order to attempt to rescue Hermione Granger. None were too eager to jolt him back into reality.

It was Elfa Sprout that drew the shortest straw. She jammed her patched hat over her flyaway silver hair, mustered a brave smile, and hurried off to rouse Severus. She wisely took a phial of a particularly strong Restorative Draft. The rest of the assembled Order was left to fret over the Hufflepuff's gentle demeanor.

As it was, they needn't have worried too much; Elfa was rather resourceful on her own. She found Severus's door unwarded. She slipped into his quarters quietly and first filched a piece of parchment from Snape's desk. She scribbled a note—See the Headmaster. –E. Sprout. She added a quick, apologetic postscript a few moments later—(Really, Severus, I did not want to do this. I hope you enjoyed your nap.)—and then tiptoed into his bedroom. She pinched his nose, pried open his mouth, and dumped the entire contents of the glass phial down his throat. Leaving the note conspicuously pinned to his shirt, she darted for the door.

Elfa was down the hallway and around the corner when she heard the first groggy, grumpy groan. She returned to the teachers' lounge directly, as Albus had instructed, with a satisfied smile on her weathered features.

The other teachers agreed that it would have been downright hilarious under other circumstances. They optimistically stored the tale away for another time, each imagining sitting at the head table in the Great Hall, affectionately prodding fun at their prickly Potions Master.

~*~*~*~

Hermione Granger—three years out of Hogwarts, now, and quite grown-up—still felt very small sitting in Albus Dumbledore's study. It was easy to imagine herself still a student; in fact, she wanted nothing more than to imagine herself a mere pupil. She had gotten into a spot of trouble, but like always, Professor Dumbledore would swoop to their rescue with a twinkle in his eye and a ready cup of cocoa.

He would make things right.

She was strangely dry-eyed. She hadn't shed a tear since waking up that morning. Madame Pomfrey had been nothing but sunshine and kindness, doting over her lone patient all day, guarding the Infirmary with she-wolf ferocity. They hadn't spoken much. Poppy had wisely let Hermione alone.

Dumbledore had asked her only briefly about her experience, gently, before Severus had appeared in a swirl of dark robes and scowls. And she had flatly told him what she remembered—yes, she was fine, she was perfectly all right, and no, she hadn't told them what they wanted to know.

He believed the last bit, and the rest she repeated like a sort of a mantra: "I'm fine, Professor, really."

That, honestly, was where Grown-Up-Miss-Granger differed from Adolescent-Hermione. A few years ago—hell, a few months ago—her lip would have trembled and she would have poured her little heart out to the kindly Headmaster. And now she sat in silence, her shoulders straight, studying the fireplace as she listened to the conversation she was only minimally engaged in.

Severus sat beside Dumbledore's desk; the two were speaking in somber tones.

"You think he knew, then, from the beginning?"

There was a derisive laugh. "Looking back, I am quite sure, Albus, that he found out sometime between my last meeting … early June, I think … and this one. He knew. I was too blind to see it at first."

From the corner of her eye she saw him slump, dejected. Dumbledore was stroking thoughtfully at his beard.

Snape had already recounted his own story. Hermione doubted that she had been the only one to notice several gaping holes in his tale—what, precisely, had he been doing for three hours?—but as the Headmaster did not call undo attention to this, neither did she. In fact, she realized the much of what Snape was saying she knew already.

She absently kicked at the frayed hem of the old Hufflepuff Quidditch robe. It had been the only garment even remotely close to her size that Madame Pomfrey had been able to find. Hermione, under different circumstances, would have hacked off the extra five inches at the bottom of the robe. Or better yet, Transfigured the garment into something wearable.

Of course, they had broken her wand when they took her. Strangely, the memory of that graceful ash wand being cruelly snapped in two, dragon heartstring torn asunder, hurt just as much as any physical wound. More, perhaps. It made her ache.

The conversation called back to her; they had finally gotten to what they all wanted to talk about: Phase Two.

"I have to go," Snape said callously. Hermione glanced at him again; strangely enough, she found herself feeling sorry for the man. And—don't, Granger—a bit guilty.

Even to her, it was obvious that just where Snape planned on going wasn't quite decided yet. The Professor's eyes narrowed and she looked away.

Hermione had expected Professor Dumbledore to argue. She had all but formulated his response in her head. To her great surprise, he merely nodded. And then the two men turned their attention on the Girl in the Canary Yellow Dress.

"I'm going home."

Home, of course, was the flat in Cambridge. It overlooked the Cam, and she had watched tourists punting down on the river in rented boats in the spring and summer. Lovely little two-bedroom apartment, cozy, filled to the brim with books and quills and half-finished parchments. Home.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Snape glanced at Dumbledore, arched a dark eyebrow, and seemed to say to the old man, The ball is on your side, now. Wax Santa.

Dumbledore studied Hermione thoughtfully for a long moment. Her bruises, for the most part, had all been magicked away. She was thin, though, too thin. Her fingers trembled for a moment before latching on to the worn sleeve of the Quidditch robe.

"Hermione."

She dropped her deep brown eyes to her lap. "You can't go home, dear." She looked up then, defiant, and opened her mouth slightly to argue. He beat her to it. Dumbledore stood up quickly, taller than Hermione remembered, and rested his hands on his desk. Those blue eyes were steely, now. "It's clear that they knew you were working on something—even if they don't know exactly what—and it's obvious that they simply won't let you go back to that comfortable little apartment of yours and continue to work."

(Snape shifted in his chair at this. Dumbledore hadn't given him the specifics, and his was strangely curious to know just what Miss Granger had been doing that had landed her in so much trouble.)

"I could stay here, then, and finish the project." She set her chin at a rebellious angle and waited for the rebuttal.

"You may do no such thing," Dumbledore said, eyes glinting now, "for the same reason Severus is leaving. It's a liability for the school, and in two weeks, for the children who will be here."

"Then-"

"No, Miss Granger! There is no 'then.'" She shrank back a bit, startled. When Albus continued, his voice had softened, but she did not miss the edge of finality in the wizard's voice. She took a small breath. "Now, both of you are going to listen to me.

"You are both going away. Together."

Severus was the first out of his chair, and Hermione followed close behind. "I have no intention of babysitting a silly girl!"

And at the same moment: "My work!" A bit of color had eked back into her cheeks at the challenge to her sole desire—to go home and put this all behind, to forget. Now, however, she was livid.

They glowered at each other for a long while, and then turned on Dumbledore. The old man did not look amused.

"You are going away. And I don't want to know where; it's best for everyone if even I don't know." Hermione opened her mouth, swayed on her feet, and sat down heavily.

The old fool wasn't joking.

"Hermione, you are not to visit your flat. You are not to take anything at all with you." She glanced up mutely. "I will see what I can do about obtaining what is left of your research from your quarters for you, but it may take some time.

"Severus, you may take what you will from your study, but be quick about it; make sure that it is perfectly apparent that you left in a rush."

Hermione, at long last, found her voice. "What will I tell…"

"Nothing." She clasped her hands together tightly; they were shaking. "I have a plan. Now, Severus, if you would please sit down, I will tell you what I intend to do. And when I am finished, I intend to exit through that handsome door. When I return, some time later, I want both of you to be gone. 

"Before I begin: lemon sherbet, either of you?"

~*~*~*~

Poppy Pomfrey was under strict orders from the Headmaster to stay put in the Infirmary. She was whistling a soft tune under her breath as she folded clean sheets, peering occasionally at the bare shelves of the stock closet. Hermione Granger was up and about; the girl had healed nicely, though Poppy saw that there were deeper hurts in that child's heart. And Severus was safe, it seemed.

She tried not to think about anything beyond the Hogwarts walls, at least not yet. Hermione was well, Severus was at long last free of that dark touch, and things would be all right.

Eventually.

Still, the sound in the sickbay made her jump slightly. Her nerves were raw, she supposed, from the events of the past two days.

"It's only me, Poppy dear," called Albus from the main room, "don't worry yourself."

She pursed her lips together tightly, turning with hands on hips to regard the Headmaster. He was still in the sickbay, though, hidden behind the dividing wall. She finished folding her sheet before hustling over to scold him for startling her.

He met her at the threshold, however, wand in hand. His eyes were sad. "Dear Poppy, it's for the best." Her thin mouth formed a small O, and she nodded wordlessly.

"Obliviate." 

A small Memory Charm; just enough to erase the past few hours. In fact, just enough to erase Hermione Granger's awakening. The Headmaster stayed for just a moment, only to see the glazed look in her eye and the moment of blankness. And then he promptly disappeared.

Poppy blinked, lifting a wrinkled hand to her head. She shook her silvered head slightly, as if to clear the cobwebs, and promptly finished folding her clean sheets. She then headed back into the sickbay to check on her sleeping patient. They had monitored Hermione all night, and though she hadn't woken, she seemed stable.

Now all they could do was wait.

The girl lay still—oh, so still—on the white hospital bed. Poppy shuffled over quietly, in the manner of all good nurses, and laid her hand on the child's forehead.

A moment later she folded both of her hands over her thin mouth, her balance questionable as she stepped back from the bed. And then she took off at a run for the teachers' lounge, or the Headmaster's office… whichever came first.

Hermione Granger was dead.


	4. Night Blindness

What the Thunder Said

Disclaimer: I'm tired of typing it, so it stops here. Anything you recognize belongs to the Great J.K. (Or, if I credit it in the A/N, some other source.) The plot is mine. I'm not making a dime off this.

Chapter Four: Night Blindness

Hermione felt a lump rising in her throat as she reached out a tentative hand, canary sleeve draping ungracefully over her wrist, to touch the mannequin. "Dental records?" she whispered. Dumbledore merely nodded. "Oh."

The Headmaster had turned a gaudy red paper weight into a picture perfect copy of Hermione Granger, right down the freckles that lightly dusted her nose and cheeks, the mole on her left forearm, and the tiny birthmark—a small quill, Hermione had decided in her first year—on her hip. 

Picture perfect, except for the obvious fact that this odd mirror was not breathing. "Oh."

"You understand, then, what you must do?" She swallowed the thick lump in her throat and looked up at the old man.

"Who-who will know otherwise?" she asked quietly, cursing that rough voice and her trembling hands.

"Only myself and Severus here. Even Madame Pomfrey will be… brought around." He grimaced there, but shook his silvery head and steepled his delicate fingers. Hermione felt her head starting to spin. Her friends! Her parents. Oh, Heaven help her, her parents. Her brown eyes shone with desperation.

"How long will we have to… you know?"

At this, Snape looked up as well. He had been studiously regarding his own folded hands. Hermione noted the faint scowl that occasionally tripped across his features, but he had remained silent through her entire coaxing.

"Indefinitely."

They both stopped breathing for an instant. Realizing the futility of keeling over on the spot, they merely nodded unhappily. They would do what had to be done.

Dumbledore stood up abruptly. "Well, then. You'd best be off." He managed a cheerful smile, blue eyes twinkling. "Enjoy your holiday, both of you." He snatched an empty flowerpot—pink and orange plaid, of all things—from one of his shelves and thrust it at Hermione. It had been one of a pair; the other—purple and green polka dots—remained sadly on the ledge. "I've always thought flower pots made lovely house-warming gifts. Goodbye!"

He swept up dead-Hermione in his arms reverently, beamed at the two, and dashed from the office. They both sat in stunned silence for a bit.

And then, before she realized what was happening, Snape was up out of his chair and sweeping towards the door. Hermione gazed after him helplessly. He merely paused at the threshold, gave her a nasty look, and bit of a curt, "Do hurry up."

She got to her feet weakly, nearly tripping over the hem of the nasty lemon-tinted dress, and scurried to keep up with him. Down the spiral staircase he went, swooping across the broad, empty hallways, in the direction of the potions lab. Finding the classroom was second nature for Hermione. Even though she had graduated three years prior, her feet were still tuned to the intricate maze that was Hogwarts.

Still, she had to run to keep up with his far longer strides. Hermione hitched up her robes, fought down the wave of nausea, and wordlessly followed.

~*~*~*~

She fell behind, eventually, and he seemed not to care. She knew that his quarters were in the close proximity of the potions classroom, though, so she made for the dungeons as fast as her shaking legs could take her. She had felt strong—as strong as could be expected—curled up in Professor Dumbledore's comfortable armchairs. Now, however, Hermione was beginning to understand the physical toll of her time in captivity.

_Don't think about that, _she told herself harshly. Getting a new grip on the hideous yellow frock, she plunged further into the bowels of the castle.

She stood outside the locked potions classroom for a moment before noticing the portrait at the end of the dark hallway, swinging slightly on its hinges. Perhaps he had left it open for her; chances were, in his haste, he had forgotten to close it behind him. She hesitated for a moment.

Hermione Granger had never counted on touring Snape's personal quarters. She studied the portrait; in all her years at Hogwarts, she had never once noticed it. A very solemn-looking woman, draped in black, her face slightly illuminated, peered back at her. She pursed her lips slightly but did not speak. She cleared her throat politely, however, when Hermione, steely-eyed, pulled back the portrait and clamored over the high step.

If the small sound in the back of the woman's throat was meant to warn Severus of impending visitors, the warning was lost on the man. The rooms were in tumultuous disarray.

Hermione softly closed the portrait behind her; again, the Potions Master paid her no attention. He stood in the middle of the room, arms flung wide, wand held high. She watched in silence as he called down the hundreds of volumes from the shelves that ringing the living room; they neatly stacked themselves in boxes that seemed to appear from no where. Once securely packed and closed, the boxes shrunk to the size of small jewelry cases.

And when the books were done, he stalked into the next room—presumably the bedroom—and fell to work.

The furniture was being left, it seemed; the simple chairs, upholstered in cream linen, had been untouched by Reducing or Packing charm. Hermione crossed the empty living room, tucked herself up in one of the chairs, and waited with her chin resting on her knees.

It struck her that the chairs were in beautiful condition; then again, it also struck her that Severus Snape probably did not have many callers.

All of the curtains had been drawn and the room was rather dark. The built-in mahogany shelves were now cleared, the desk had been rummaged through considerably, and the coffee table was overturned. Hermione felt a pang of something in her chest; sadness, perhaps, for this home that he was giving up.

Guilt, again, which she immediately pushed from her mind. "Don't think about that" had become a sort of mantra.

He started in the doorway between bedroom and living room, seeing her for the first time. Hermione looked up wearily as he dumped a new set of tiny crates into the pile that was collecting in the middle of the floor. He then did something entirely out of character, at least from Hermione's perspective. He stalked across the smooth flagstone floor, dropped in the opposite armchair, and closed his eyes.

They would be leaving soon—they had no choice—but they both seemed to appreciate the need for a final, quiet moment.

"I am going to Gringotts," he said at last, coldly. Hermione cut her eyes at him and arched an eyebrow.

"That does not seem particularly wise," she said tersely.

"Do not assume to tell me," he snapped, "what is and is not wise." She was too tired to argue the point and merely glowered at him. If he wished to explain his dubious motives for venturing out into the wizarding world, he would do so in his own time.

"I intend to empty my account," he said finally, noncommittally, "and exchange the Galleons for Muggle currency. And then I will make some brief purchases in Diagon Alley before returning. You will wait here for me."

_Typical Snape. _Again, the Granger Glower kicked into high gear.

"You owe it to me, then, to tell me where we're going."

"I owe you no such thing. I will be back in a few hours. Follow me; it is not safe for you to wait here. I have little doubt that the meddling fools I call co-workers will be down shortly to share, tearfully, the oh-so-devastating news that Hermione Granger is dead." His voice was dripping with disdain and hard-heartedness. 

_Touché._

She had almost—almost!—forgotten what an absolute prick Snape could be. He had saved her life, after all. Upon actually meeting and conversing with him, though, this redeeming factor was overcome by the surge of absolute hatred she had for the man.

He might as well have left her to the Death Eaters; she had a feeling that she was going to kill herself, living with him. And death by Dark Lord would likely be far less painful than a slow Snaping.

Wordlessly, Hermione stood and, with as much dignity as one wearing a tattered Hufflepuff Quidditch uniform could muster (which honestly, was not much at all), followed him.

~*~*~*~

He was leaving her in the dark, drafty passageway connecting his quarters and the clearing just beyond Hogwarts boundaries. He locked both entrances. He felt a twinge—just a twinge—of guilt, and then promptly decided that the silly girl was safer there than anywhere else.

In fact, were they neither of them likely to go insane, they would probably be best to simply hole up there for a few years while Voldemort ravaged the land.

Severus had been able to forget, momentarily, Miss Granger's decidedly annoying mannerisms when she was bound and captive. She was much easier to manage after three years of absence and three weeks of torture. And when she was naked and bruised and battered, it was slightly easier to forget what a prissy, know-it-all brat she was.

Merlin help him, he was starting to believe in karma. Or, more specifically: bad juju.

He had Apparated to Diagon Alley after securing the Hogsmeade-end entrance and carefully concealing it in the underbrush. It was late afternoon, and as usual, the shopping crowds were beginning to die down. He almost wished for a pre-Christmas crush; it would be easier to lose himself in a crowd.

Of course, Severus had always had trouble blending in. Luckily, as he had suspected, even the Death Eaters weren't stupid enough to camp out in the single largest wizarding shopping mall in Britain. He hadn't been smote into the ground on appearing outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, and so chances were, it would be an uneventful trip.

Chances were he was being watched, though.

His first trip was to Gringotts. He merely passed the key across the counter to one of the unpleasant goblins. "Vault 211," he said calmly. The goblin peered at him over the rims of silver glasses. Severus frowned at him severely. "I'd like to close my account. Have all but twenty Galleons converted to pounds."

  
The goblin was far from happy—they were more eager to take money than to give it back—but he complied wordlessly. For the first time since Severus could remember, he was spared a nerve-rattling trip to his enormous vault. He merely took a seat beside the great silver doors and waited for Smidel—if he had read the gleaming nameplate correctly—to return.

In a quarter of an hour, Severus was leaving the gleaming white bank with the entirety of his life's savings in his pockets.

He was not wealthy, as most students speculated; while the Snape family had once been old and revered, the small sum Severus had been awarded was far from a fortune. However, he had found that he had little to actually spend his money on. Save for the books he was ever-collecting, the great majority of Severus's paycheck went into the bank.

He was not wealthy, but he had a pretty penny saved up. With a favorable exchange rate, he was set for years to come.

_Years. _That was a frightening thought.

He ducked into Flourish & Blotts. Again, luck was on his side; the girl behind the counter was a pale blonde thing who had graduated from Hogwarts a few years back. A Ravenclaw. He couldn't place her name, but her eyes widened slightly at his appearance. Chances were, they had not been on pleasant terms. Even better.

He selected a book on disguise and cosmetic charms. _Wand Wonders with Wendy Witherspoon: Charms for the Cosmetically-Challenged_. Giving the wide-eyed, lithe Ravenclaw his most Snapish frown, he wordlessly paid for the ridiculous tome and swept from the store.

If he remembered correctly, Sena Elliot—_ah ha! that's the foolish child's name_—was Ravenclaw's most notorious gossip. By closing time, all of Diagon Alley would know that Professor Severus Snape had purchased a book of beauty charms. He had to bite back a sardonic smile. 

There was a well-hidden water closet in one of the alley's crannies; two, to be precise, labeled _witches _and _wizards _in an unruly font. He ducked in to the latter, locked the door behind him, and carefully did not touch a thing in the unkempt public bathroom. He began to leaf through the pages of the ridiculous book, discarding the Flourish & Blotts signature paper bag in a nearby receptacle.

Three-fourths of the glossy manuscript was devoted to witch's maintenance, and Severus was in no mood to study the finer arts of Waxing Charms. He hastily turned to the back of the book, flipped to the section on haircuts, and set to work.

Ten minutes later, he was sprinkling a few longish locks of hair—turned silver, post-severing—on the floor beside the trashcan. Clues, in case those dunderheads were too thickheaded to pick up on the others.

He tucked the book under his arm and reached for his wand again, not even pausing to scrutinize the work of his wand. He muttered the spell and Disapparated to the grove. Not given to sentimentality, he pointedly did not give Diagon Alley a last once-over; chances were, no matter how long fate imposed this exile, some things would never change.

~*~*~*~

She was asleep, of all things, beside the neat stack of miniature boxes. Severus paused for a moment to study her restless features. She had pulled her knees up inside the cover of that ridiculous canary jumpsuit, wrapping thin arms tightly around herself. And he noticed that it was, in fact, slightly chilly in the tunnel.

He considered picking her up; it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. She whimpered, though, a flicker of fear passing over her face; she twitched, her mouth opening slightly in some unspoken plea. He frowned.

No, he didn't exactly fancy totting her half way around the globe. However, as he was not a fool, he did not intend to wake the sniveling child up either. She would talk his ear off, demanding little chit that she was.

After that unsettling brush with Voldemort, after the disconcerting events of the prior days, Severus was finally coming into his own again.

He had the better part of the afternoon pondering his—their—predicament. Where to take the foolish little snit? Where was he expected to wait out Voldemort's reign—holed up with Granger, no less—in some semblance of peace and security?

He thought first of Heidelberg. He had had an aunt there when he was a boy, and as far as he knew, the flat was still abandoned. However, Severus knew all too well that the Dark regiment in Germany was growing larger every day. Besides, the idea of being cooped up with know-it-all Granger in that tiny apartment made him want to scratch his obsidian eyes out.

Italy, then: it was relatively neutral, still. Rome was still secure, and some of the smaller Italian villages would be untouched even in the darkest days of war. Still, he had no intention of Apparating into a strange country with only a few broken phrases of Italian to his name and no idea of where he would be spending the night.

Sitting on that plush bench in sparkling Gringotts, it came to him that he had very few options. There was one shining, logical choice. It happened to be the choice he was least willing to acknowledge.

But when he thought of choices, he realized he had none.

He flicked his wand in Dearest Head Girl's direction. "Mobilicorpus," Severus murmured. A separate charm lodged the sum of his earthly belongings in his pockets. He strode purposefully towards the trap door at the end of the tunnel, climbing quietly back into the clearing.

He pointed his wand at Granger. She disappeared obediently, still lodged in some unhappy dream. Severus decided he was spending all together too much time blinking that child in and out of trouble.

Dumbledore—smiling sagely—had professed no desire to know where the reluctant duo was off to. _He would._  Albus, obviously, already knew.

He frowned in the direction of the castle, just in case that beatific crackpot was still watching, and disappeared as well.


	5. Requiem in Red

What the Thunder Said

A/N: I'm making a note at the beginning here to prepare you all. This chapter's a bit of a downer, but it cried out to be written. I'm also afraid that you won't be seeing any of Sevvy or 'Mione until next chapter. Tune in next week for our regularly scheduled entertainment! (Next week equaling, obviously, whenever Chapter 6 is finished.)

  
Chapter Five: Requiem in Red

It was ten o'clock on a Thursday morning, and the British Museum was surprisingly busy.

A group of schoolchildren, decked out in matching t-shirts advertising their summer program, wandered past. The duo of young counselors were carefully herding the flock of fledglings past the huge winged lions, reduced guarding galleries now that the Assyrian empire was a thing of the past. They guided their class into the Egyptian rooms, and Elisabeth heard one young voice excitedly clamoring over the "Rose bowl" stone.

An American, if ever she heard one.

A few art students ambled past, headed for one of the broad flights of steps. She noted the sketchbooks under their arms, the jaunty berets on their shorn heads. Young arts students, apparently, still very caught up in the drama of playing the Intellectual.

Unlike past visits, she did not have time today to watch the visitors come and go. She drew an unsteady breath and headed for the Greek galleries.

The Elgin Marbles. She knew her way through the series of rooms like the back of her hand. How many times she had followed the bobbing head of her daughter through these corridors! How many times she had watched those bright little eyes gobbling up details, nose hovering close to fogged glass, quick mind devouring the informational plaques beside each display.

It had been Hermione's favorite retreat as a child. With every step, however, Elisabeth Granger's heart grew heavier. _My daughter is missing. _She passed a gaggle of Japanese tourists, each plugged in to their recorded walk-through tours and goggling at a set of Grecian urns._ My daughter is missing. _Past a silver jar, the lalysos cup with swans and fishes._ My Hermione is gone._

They had moved to London, to a quaint townhouse in Notting Hill, when Hermione was five. They opened their practice in the city; Granger & Granger, Doctors of Dentistry. The real reason, however, for the relocation was the schools; Hermione, with a flicker of intelligence unusual in one her age, would be going to the finest primary schools. The precocious five year old helped her father paint the door to their happy little house red. 

Hermione and her father had always been close; he helped her wade through his scientific journals. They'd take turns spinning the globe in his office, landing on countries and discussing geopolitics. John had taught his only child the fine art of mathematics. They fought bitterly and laughed a great deal. It was a strange relationship. 

It was Elisabeth, however, that Hermione clung to. They looked more like sisters, sharing those irrepressible nests of brunette hair, the same straight little noses, matching inquisitive brown eyes. And they tackled London with youthful energy, hand in hand, set on knowing the city inside and out.

And from that desire was born the monthly trips to the British Museum. Hermione called it the most wonderful place, the most fabulous museum in the world.

When the strange letter—carried by an owl, no less, from a place they had never heard of—appeared on the kitchen table, it was Elisabeth who let her daughter leave. 

John had laughed, at first, as if it were a joke. Elisabeth could only think, however, of watching her daughter wander the Museum. And she remembered an incident when Hermione was eight. They had paused, on their way to the café, beside the Pantheon exhibit. Beside the Elgin Marbles.

Hermione had watched the marble friezes intently, her lips parted in rapt wonder, and Elisabeth saw it then: the marble figures, glowing faintly, and Athena… smiling down at Hermione, whispering something that only the girl seemed able to hear.

She had thought it was a trick of the light. But that is what she thought of when that thick parchment was dropped in Hermione's scrambled eggs. 

She had let her daughter traipse off to that strange school in Scotland. That, after all, was why she found herself alone in British Museum, early for a meeting she was dreading.

It was still very surreal. The phone had rung four days ago, late in the evening. Elisabeth was still up, looking over a file on one of her particularly ornery patients. She stumped her toe on her trek across the study, finally picking up the receiver on the old rotary phone.

The caller on the other end sounded, ironically enough, as though he had very little experience with phone calls, let along phone calls of this nature.

Very sorry to inform you … missing … hasn't come in to work …filed for vacation, hasn't returned yet. Her throat went dry at the memory. Have you …? No? We had hoped … her parents would know … any idea of her whereabouts … No, do not worry. We will contact you shortly … thank you. 

She had let the phone ring in Hermione's flat for a full seven and a half minutes. Nothing.

Her daughter had, in fact, planned a vacation. She was Apparating, she told her mother over the telephone a few weeks prior, to a small wizarding Inn in the Greek Isles. "I need a vacation," she said, her voice odd. "Besides, I think I may be able to work in peace."

She was very intent on spending an uninterrupted two weeks to herself.

Elisabeth had pieced together the story as best she could, using what little the Ministry of Magic—strange fellows, all of them—would tell her. Hermione had worked up until her scheduled vacation, leaving work late on a Friday afternoon. She had gone back to her flat, apparently, to pack.

She never checked in at the quaint little Inn. And when the dedicated, never-absent Miss Granger failed to show up for work after vacation, her coworkers at the Department of Magical Research and Innovations grew worried.

Her daughter was missing. And she had been missing, apparently, for three and a half weeks. And Elisabeth had known nothing of this tragedy.

The questions had gotten worse as the days progressed. _Can you tell us anything about your daughter's work? Her private studies? _And then the stab to the heart: _Do you know of anyone who would wish Hermione ill? Anything that she was working on that could be considered controversial?_

She paused, at long last, at the Elgin Marbles. She found herself searching Central scene of the east frieze of the Parthenon for some clue, some advice. Athena was lacking in sage wisdom, and Hephaistos, smith of the gods, was stony and still.

She had been telling herself, for three days, that Hermione was well. That all would be well. That, in no time at all, she and Hermione would be browsing the endless galleries once more. Discussing the upcoming renovations. Planning a trip to the British Library.

She was early for the appointment, but the uncomfortable looking agent arrived shortly. He seemed slightly unhappy that she was already in attendance. "Mrs. Granger," he offered stiffly. "I am, ah, Stephen Dougherty. I'm an- an Auror." His voice was pitched low, and he snagged a handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his brow before extending his hand to her.

She realized that he was really quite young.

"Ah. An Auror." Hermione had mentioned them, especially after several of her school friends joined their ranks. They sounded a bit like detectives, or wizarding police. She could not bring herself to smile, but habit brought pleasantries to her lips. "A pleasure to meet you."

He merely nodded. She noticed that his hands were shaking.

"Thank you for your cooperation over the past few days. The Ministry is very thankful." She nodded mutely, and he paused. He glanced up at the friezes, licking his lips. She felt her breath grow shallow.

"Please, Mr. Dougherty- please, just… just tell me about my daughter."

  
He studied the floor tiles, now, before offering her a truly remorseful look. And then he seemed to find himself and his composure, remembering the training that had earned him the little Silver Wand badge on his collar.

"Miss Granger was recovered from captivity two days ago." Elisabeth's eyes widened. Two days! "She was taken to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for medical attention. We were not aware of this and the full conditions of her rescue until sometime yesterday morning." 

  
Oh. Dare she breath a sigh of relief? _Rescue._ Such a beautiful word. And yet… something in the Auror's countenance worried her.

"I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Granger. Your daughter passed away yesterday as a result of wounds inflicted during her kidnapping."

Such strange, foreign words. _Passed away._ Elisabeth felt her knees begin to give, her throat tighten, a keen build up in her chest. _Oh. Oh. No no no no no._

He was still speaking, she was vaguely aware "…have the body in our custody…would appreciate a final confirmation…very sorry…the entire Ministry…our deepest condolences…return the body to your family…"

Her hands did not work. She tried to stopper her mouth, stopper the scream that was building there, stopper her mind. She wanted to shut down; she felt herself slipping, and then an arm at her elbow. __

_My daughter is dead._ They were words she had prayed never to think, to utter.

Athena and the gods continued their frozen play and Elisabeth Granger let herself be led away by the young Auror, let herself be dragged off to identify the body of her only child, let herself be pulled from the place she and Hermione had loved with all their hearts.

~*~*~*~

Harry Potter deposited a handful of Knuts in the pouch at the owl's claw; it was second nature for the Auror. Today, however, he was blessedly relaxed. He had filed for vacation time back in June. The second week of August was always slow, his supervisor had told him. "Talk all the time you want, Harry. You deserve it."

For now, he was simply concentrating on eating his Fizzy Flakes. He glanced at the wriggling banner: The Daily Prophet fairly danced across the top of the newspaper. August 10, 2001. Friday, Harry noted with regret. Three more days of relaxation; he was really quite refreshed, having stuck to his oath to distance himself from all things Ministry, if only for his week of freedom.

The "newsie" bird deftly plucked a beakful of cereal from Harry's bowl, hooted his appreciation, and launched himself in the direction of the window. Harry's spoon found its way back into the chipped bowl. With a satisfied smile, the handsome young man reached for his paper and rolled off the rubber band.

His heart sank. _One day of good news too much to ask for? _Harry thought sourly. And he doggedly read beyond the headline.

BREAKING NEWS: MINISTRY CONFIRMS TAKING, DEATH 

_by Ebinezer Bartomew_

_Rumors of another Taking were confirmed last night at an evening press conference. The Ministry of Magic spokeswitch, Elsa Harbinger, made a short speech from the newsroom at Ministry headquarters. While the conference left many questions unanswered, the news released is still bound to shake the entire wizarding world._

_"The latest Taking occurred on July 13. The circumstances surrounding the Taking are still unclear," Harbinger said. It is also unclear why the Ministry was not aware of this Taking until, at earliest, the beginning of this week. "The victim was recovered alive on Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, the victim passed away on Thursday due to complications."_

_The Ministry hesitated to release the name of the victim. However, after prodding from the press and eventual consent from Ministry leadership, Harbinger revealed the identity behind this latest crime. "Hermione Granger, age 20, was Taken from …_

His hands began to shake. Harry dropped the paper, trembling, and stared for a long moment at the typecast words.

Hermione Granger is dead. The headline was rearranging itself, becoming all the more flashy and outraged. **_HERMIONE GRANGER TAKEN, DEAD: _**_Ministry leaving questions unanswered._

He frantically skimmed the rest of the article, hoping that this was some cruel mistake, hoping it was a misprint. The illustrious Mr. Bartomew went on to describe Hermione's famous school record and promising work with the Ministry.

When her record number of NEWTs and Head Girl status was revealed, there was no mistaking the identity of the article's protagonist. It was one of the last sentences in the article that jumped out at him, though.

As previously mentioned, the reasons for Granger's kidnapping remain at large. Some wonder, however, if Granger's friendship and ties with Harry Potter led to her targeting and downfall. Only time will tell.

His head was swimming. Harry leapt to his feet, stumbled into the flat's tiny bathroom, and emptied his stomach into the cool porcelain basin. He began to shake all the more violently.

How had he not known of this? How? He faintly, then, remembered Ginny glancing at him across the tiny dinner table.

"There's a message for you from the Ministry," she said, poking at her broccoli. Her eyes flitted towards the silvery Messenger Spell. It had come to the flat while he was out, and she had tacked it to the refrigerator. His wife twirled her fork skillfully between her fingers. "It's vague, but they sound rather flustered. They said it was important. Questions for you regarding one of the Takings, or some such."

_"They know I'm on vacation. If it's important enough, they'll drag me in eventually." And he resolved not to so much as open the little scroll._

Another wave of nausea brought him to his knees. The walls were thin, and he heard Ginny stirring in the bedroom adjacent to the water closet.

"Harry? Harry, are you all right?" Slippered feet on the tiles, a tousled red head poking around the slightly ajar door. Her brown eyes widened slightly. "Darling, what's-"

He drew himself up slightly, bracing his hands on either side of the toilet. "Hermione-" She looked merely confused. "The paper." He fought back another wave of sickness.

When he managed to stand up, he wiped his mouth weakly on the back of his sleeve and tottered in to the living room. Ginny, pale and frozen, stood with fists drawn tight over her little mouth. It seemed as if she could not wrench her tearful eyes from the garish headline.

Ron appeared in the Potters' living room a moment later, his white face contrasting horribly with shocking red hair. He clutched his own copy of the Daily Prophet close to his chest. He glanced from his best friend to his little sister and then back again. Apparently the Ministry had not contacted Ron—who had, until fifteen seconds ago, been in eastern India studying ancient Defense Against the Dark Arts methods—either. 

"Bloody hell." And then his face crumpled and the three moved together simultaneously, meeting in the middle of the room and sinking to the carpet and crying out in three separate voices, an intensely braided howl for a dead Hermione.

~*~*~*~

It was a Muggle funeral, lacking the incantations and wand salutes and eventual funeral pyre of wizard origin. And yet, Hermione Granger's funeral was well attended by Muggle and witch alike. Sunday morning dawned bright, and the August afternoon was glowing with sunshine.

St. Martin-in-the-Fields cast a faint shadow over the cemetery. The Grangers were vaguely religious, but they had belonged to no church; it seemed fitting that they chose one of Hermione's favorites for her funeral.

Trafalgar Square was strangely quiet. Mourners found themselves glancing up at the gothic spire on the church, set strangely atop a Greek-style temple. When she was little, her parents had brought her to the free concerts in the mornings. And occasionally when she was older she would go alone, sitting in the worn pews and listening with closed eyes to the soaring voices of the choir. And then she would venture out to the Square and buy a small bag of seeds to feed the birds and study Lord Nelson's statue with a piecing, thoughtful gaze.

Despite its Muggle renderings, despite the Church of England priest, the great majority of guests were wizards. The younger ones—school friends—had managed to select somber black suits and ties, modest little dresses with matching gloves. Here and there, though, Elisabeth caught sight of a few absurdities: the crescent-moon glasses, the tip of a wand peeking out from under a cuff, a set of purple slacks.

It was small comfort, but there it was.

The Weasleys had turned out en masse, standing together with red hair blazing in the afternoon sun. Elisabeth recognized Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley; they ventured over, before the ceremony, to offer condolences. Ron seemed most shaken; he had withdrawn into himself, looking ironically small in that tall frame. A tiny little man—who, Elisabeth realized with a jolt, was an old professor of Hermione's—was sobbing miserably into wrinkled hands. A giant of a fellow—Rueben Hadrid, if Elisabeth remembered correctly—sank down beside the itty-bitty wizard and sobbed just as wretchedly. She started at the sight of all of the Hogwarts staff materializing silently beside the grave.

The stream of well-wishers, of tearful coworkers, of sobbing classmates, of quiet neighbors seemed never to end.

Elisabeth cried quietly into her husband's shoulder as they lowered the gleaming casket into the earth. More than anything, she felt empty. It was like an ache in her abdomen, as if something had been wrenched from her middle-aged body, as if her womb mourned for the loss of the life she had borne.

And somewhere in the back of her mind: _not right, not true, not right. _She had once imagined, in the midst of a morbid spin, that she would know, just _know_, if her husband or daughter died.

Folly, that.

It would be a long while before she summoned the strength to visit Trafalgar Square again.

~*~*~*~

It had been closed-casket funeral. Which was probably for the best. Transfiguration, even cast by the most powerful wizards, had its limits. And Hermione Granger's cold, still corpse was beginning to look a bit fuzzy around the edges. Albus Dumbledore lingered at the fresh grave, studying the marble marker after nearly all had left. Minerva gave him a last, worried glance and disappeared as well into the darkness. A moment later, the Headmaster watched a tabby cat dark out across the Square, frightening the poultry.

A sad sort of smile peeked around his white beard. Success, yes, but a melancholy success if ever he had seen one. A fresh stab of guild pierced his conscience.

There was no other way.

Should anyone ever dig up that lovely mahogany casket, they would find a very peculiar body indeed. Hermione Granger, September 19, 1980 – August 8, 2001, was reduced to a paperweight. One that Albus had been rather fond of, actually, and one that he would miss. He said his eulogy to the paperweight—"goodbye, then, and good luck"—and Disapparated.


	6. Delayed Departures

What the Thunder Said

Chapter Six: Delayed Departures 

She woke with an unpleasant start to find herself hovering in midair. A dream, perhaps? No such luck.

And she realized that it had not, as she at first believed, been one of her own little twitches that roused her from her light, unpleasant—_don't think about that yet_—slumber. She was being most cruelly wrestled through a trapdoor in the dirt ceiling of the tunnel by some invisible thread.

"Do put me down," she snapped darkly, a bit more loudly than she intended. She was horrified, after a moment, to recognize the edge of panic in her voice. Still, what was said was said. And the startled Snape, still clamoring up onto the leafy surface, obliged immediately. She landed in a tangle of banana silk and jostled limbs. He gave her a snarky glare over his shoulder and turned to continue through the door.

Oh, she hated that man and his billowing black robes and graceful swooshings! She realized this acute dislike was growing a bit more pronounced with every passing moment and added insult. It occurred to her that she had managed, in her time away from Hogwarts, to forget precisely how distasteful the Potions Master was. It was coming crashing back; Realization with a Capital R sounded an awful lot like Neville's eleventh replacement cauldron hitting the stony floor of the Potions classroom.

Bad. Very bad.

Hermione stuck her nose in her hair—after batting the hair and dirt from her eyes—and scrambled to her feet. "I'd ask again, Professor, that you tell me where you're carting me off to in the middle of the night. I'd appreciate-"

"Do shut up, you foolish girl," he hissed, and in a swirl of black robes the trap door slammed shut and his nose hovered painfully close to her own. The faint moonlight that had previously illuminated the opening now gone, Hermione realized that it was dark. Very dark.

And, in spite of herself, she began to shiver… and not from cold. _Don't think about that. _Still, she took a step backwards hastily.

"Need I ever remind you, Miss Granger," he continued silkily, voice dripping with disdain and annoyance, "the peril you've put us in?"

"I've-?" She clamped her mouth shut; she would not take that insufferable man's bait. She had managed seven years of him, she had learned to keep her tongue in her head, and she could do that just as well now as when she was twelve. She took a deep breath. He had retreated slightly as well, and she couldn't see those angular cheekbones or hard eyes. She hoped he didn't notice her shaking hands.

"It would have been easier," she said flatly, "if I had not been jolted from a second kidnapping. I'm sure you understand my wariness in being dragged off, unwittingly, by strange men." There was a new edge to her voice here, something nearly as sharp as his own tone.

Silence. For a moment, at least, though it didn't last.

"Perhaps you had best learn to take care of yourself, Miss Granger." He sounded as disinterested as ever. "I find you exceedingly infantile for one who claims to be an adult."

She let that pass. She had bigger fish to fry. "Where," she pressed once more, "are we going?"

~*~*~*~

On one hand, he could simply grab the girl by that stupid bushy hair and throw her through the trap door. And Apparate. And be done with it. But Severus was beginning to come to grips with this odd situation, this terrible mess he had gotten himself in. He had to put up with the girl until Merlin knew when, all to the hidden delight and beatific applause of Albus Dumbledore. He might as well be on speaking terms with her, then, if months loomed ahead. Severus did not think kidnapping-by-hair-pulling constituted as "speaking terms."

That left the other hand to deal with. His left, so to speak; the one that he rarely dealt with. Compromise.

Damn Albus. Damn the Death Eaters, and damn Voldemort. And more than anything else, damn Hermione Granger.

"Sit." His eyes had adjusted to the dark relatively quickly, and as he withdrew slightly, he saw her hesitate. After a moment, however, she sat. Her chin was set at a defiant, wary angle, as if she were not yet convinced of her triumph. She slid down against the hard-packed wall on her side of the narrow tunnel, the curve of her back meeting the angle between floor and wall. She drew up her knees to her chest under that hideous frock.

He reached up and checked the hatch of the trap door. He locked it again. "Lumos." The tip of his wand glowed softly, illuminating the small end of the corridor. She looked up at him.

"Where are we going?" She was no longer as pushy, as bossy as before She was quieter, somehow, and less demanding. For a little while he had seen the Old Granger, the ringleader, though many would have doubted it, of Potter's little gang, the know-it-all student. And now she seemed someone entirely different.

He wasn't complaining. She was exponentially easier to deal with in this subdued, serious state. Still, it was unnerving. If he had liked the girl at all, he would have been worried—she had withdrawn again into that yellow tent and was regarding him with hooded, earnest, tired eyes.

He bit back a snide remark. Diplomacy, from Severus Snape? Oh, the insanity was beginning. He thought for a moment. "Where do you want to do?" he asked at last, neither cruelly nor compassionately.

She did not hesitate as he had. She gave him a quick glance. "I don't know." He could tell it was the truth. They sat for a long moment in silence, the light at the end of his Snape's wand growing more steady and assured.

"Albus owns a cabin," he said at last. "I was spending my holidays there before the Order was recalled. It's Unplottable, among other things. I did not test the wards too carefully when I was there this summer, but I have reason to believe that it is very well guarded."

She chewed at her lower lip. "And you expect that Professor Dumbledore knows you—where we—plan to head there?"

He regarded her simply. Clever, even under stress. "Yes. It is safer, as he mentioned, if he does not know for certain. Under Veritaserum, he could still tell inquisitors that he does not know where I headed." She nodded her head slightly, grudgingly accepting the wisdom in that.

"Where, then?"

"America."

"Oh."

~*~*~*~

"An island in the San Juans. In Washington. The Northwest, I believe they call it. Near-"

"I know where it is," she snapped, an edge returning to her voice.

She had been entertaining, for the briefest moments, the idea of a cottage on a Greek isle somewhere in the Mediterranean, on a cliff overlooking an azure sea. Or a secluded little house in the French countryside, or even someplace in Britain, someplace familiar. Or perhaps a little beach house in the Pacific, where she would be blissfully separated from the world with the exception of a few enchanting natives.

America, though.

It seemed sensible, with further thought. The wizarding populace in America had been left alone, for the most part, by the war with Voldemort. They were Americans, after all, and they were obstinately independent. She'd read a few articles that hinted at eventual involvement, but it was likely that only the Eastern seaboard would suffer at all. New York and D.C. had, in their own rights, large wizarding communities. And the rest of the country was relatively Muggle, from what she had read.

Without a word, their strange little interview was over. He snuffed out the light in his wand with a hastily muttered "Nox," and reached up towards the trap door. Just as the edge had returned to her voice, he had reverted quite quickly back to the Insufferable Snape.

And to think, he had been nearly bearable for a few moments there. Thinking back—both seated on the rough, cold floor of the tunnel, both quiet and sober and straight-forward—she decided that he must be more tired than she had thought. Certainly, Severus Snape, under no normal circumstances, would have behaved in such a surprisingly polite manner.

He swept up through the high trap door and turned, eyes glinting, to look back at her. "Do be quiet, Miss Granger, for I should hate to have to remind you a third time." He smiled darkly as she rose stiffly, looking up at the high ledge. "Do you need a hand?"

"I can do very well," she hissed, "on my own." She was not a particularly statuesque witch. In fact, she was quite the opposite. She had to give a few little hops to reach the ledge, her little fingers finally curling around the edge of the trap door. After a great deal of huffing and puffing, she pulled herself up and over, dusting the dirt from her palms. She tried to pretend her little half-step stumble was intentional. Her foot caught on the hem of her yellow robe, and as she straightened, there was a brief, sharp tear in the fabric.

He studied her for a moment before sneering once again. "I see that you're still ludicrously mulish." She willed herself to keep her petulant mouth shut; she had no intention of playing into one of his little traps. He kicked the trapdoor shut with his foot and covered it with a bit of the underbrush.

"Let's just be going," she finally announced between gritted teeth. "I hardly expected lollygagging—in unsafe territory—from a seasoned spy." His eyes narrowed and his head bobbed in the slightest of nods.

Oh dear God. His head.

How—_how_—had she not noticed that in the tunnel?

"You cut your hair," Hermione breathed. She regretted the words, however true, as soon as they left her mouth. Snape's satirical smile was back in a flash, his eyes glinting in the faint light.

"How perceptive, Miss Granger."

She wrenched her eyes from this newest revelation, the latest in a day of surprises. Still, she had to admit, he had done a fairly decent job of it. Considering he did it himself, of course. Somehow she could not wrap her mind around the idea of the Formidable Severus Snape stepping in to the small styling salon—the Shear Magic—in Diagon Alley and paying for a wash and trim.

_Of course _he _would pay for a wash_, Hermione thought, a grim bit of amusement punctuating her returning sour mood. Severus Snape had cut his hair. She ached, at that particular moment, for two specific Gryffindors. They would have greatly appreciated a moment such as this.

It was not short by any means, but the lank length was gone. It had been skillfully trimmed to about three or four inches in length, a few silky wisps of hair falling across his forehead in a manner that looked, for a moment, almost boyish.

She shivered.

He grabbed her by the forearm, wrenching her from her reverie. Hermione was disgusted to realize that she had flinched at the touch and recoiled slightly. She opened her eyes—they had flown shut, for some reason—to find him regarding her strangely. "Let's just go," she said tightly.

She was beginning to feel ill again.

"Hold tight," he said, and she did. She turned, slightly to glimpse a flicker of light through the trees. The castle, looming in the distance, high above the Forbidden Forest. Hermione swayed slightly on her feet, and the grip on her forearm tightened immediately.

And then they were gone.

~*~*~*~

"Fang, ye git! D'on touch the scones, or I swear ye'll get no supper for a week!" The large black dog regarded the half-giant with glittering, expressive eyes. He didn't mean it. He never meant it. And sure enough, in a moment, Hagrid was setting the plate of rock-hard biscuits on the floor of his cabin.

He snuffled—Hagrid, not the dog—and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. "Used to be Hermione's favorites," he told his companion. Fang glanced up for a moment and then went back, promptly, to gnawing at his brickish breakfast. 

Huh. Showed how much dear Hagrid knew. Fang had eaten many a discarded scone, carefully stashed in the rosebush by the door of the hut. The three Gryffindors had left them often on their way back to the castle. Fang quickly swallowed the rest of the scones, having given up on actually chewing them, and trotted over to lie back down in his corner by the fire. Hagrid blew his nose loudly and dissolved in another fit of broken sobs.

Fang picked up the rag he had found on his morning patrol and continued to happily slobber over the swath of yellow fabric. Scones and silk. A happy day for a dog.

A/N:

I know. A short chapter. I'm sorry. It's a crazy month for me, though, and I wanted to get SOMETHING up. I'm not completely happy with this, but hopefully things will get better from here on out.

To the "no one" who reviewed: You guessed it! Mrs. PDR Vandertramp is a mnemonic device taught by, I'm assuming, that terrible coalition of French teachers the world over. Go figure.

To all of my other lovely reviewers: Thank you so much for all of your kind words. I had no idea, until I took to writing fanfiction myself, how true it is when authors exclaim about living for reviews. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

As to where Hermione and Sev are off to… you write what you know. I would have loved to send them off to some Pacific isle. It came down to a flat in Heidelberg, where I lived for a few months, and the Northwest. I'm in the Northwest now, so I'll write what I know. Not terribly exotic, but it should do.


	7. Home Sweet Home

What the Thunder Said

Chapter Seven: Home Sweet Home

San Domingo Island, at three o'clock in the afternoon on a sunny August day, was a rather pleasant place to be.

Of course, Severus was in no mood to stop and admire the leafy canopy overhead, the graceful evergreens, or the cool breeze that came up from the water. No. He had to worry about the limp, pale, wretched little nuisance in his arms. He glanced down at her sourly and continued to tromp through the woods to the edge of his property—well, not _his_, but it might as well have been, considering that Albus always vacationed in Bermuda in hideous shorts that matched his beard. Foolish old man.

It was a small miracle that Granger had made it through the Apparation. Intercontinental Apparation was always tricky, and a second party made things even more complicated. Severus snorted. This, in no way, implied that _he _had not managed the feat. No, of course not. Apparently Miss Granger, however, took "hold on" to mean "faint inconveniently and nearly splinch into oblivion."

He paused for a moment, catching his breath, and let himself indulge the brief fantasy. He would merely write an apologetic letter to Albus—_I'm sorry, Headmaster, but she fell off!_—and continue on his way most happily and decidedly alone. But no. She had either fallen the wrong way, or he had caught her—he hated to think that he might have mussed up an opportunity to rid himself of the creature, but there it was.

Strange, thinking about their half-civilized conversation in the tunnel. He had almost—almost—managed not to hate her for a moment. Almost.

Severus was too tired to levitate her properly, so he was stuck with totting her through the solitary woods towards Merridoc's Landing, her banana self lolling most ungracefully in his arms. Severus was afraid to look too closely at her; he had the distinct premonition that she was drooling. Drooling, or dead, but he wasn't about to risk such repulsion at the slim chance of a miracle.

There was a faint lining to his dire cloud. Pewter, perhaps—he wasn't ready to call anything a silver lining, not yet at least—but still slightly glittery. With Granger incapacitated, he was left to return to his cottage on the Sound in relative peace.

As soon as the idea had occurred to him, and once it became apparent that he had no place to go _but _the cottage, Severus had taken to dreading this moment. He was dreading the break in the trees, the first view of the cottage. During his summer retreat, it had been his, all his, and the selfish Slytherin wanted nothing to do with sharing the private abode. The mere thought of introducing another living beast, let alone a bushy-haired one by the name of Hermione Granger, to the cottage—_his _cottage—made something tense in his chest.

  
He had little choice in the matter at this point.

Severus caught a glimpse of the blue gray water beyond the forest. He sighed, hitched Granger up a bit in his arms, and continued on most diligently. The pine trees and evergreens stopped abruptly, carving a small semicircle of a grassy clearing out beside the water. A gravelly trail led out of the trees on the right; it could be used to access the small town on the island, though Severus had never been more than the few miles down to the road. The cottage itself, from a distance, was appalling. It looked more like a ramshackle hut than a comfortable Northwest abode. As Severus plodded across the green grass, however, the image began to shimmer a bit, and the charmed façade that would likely deter any unwanted visitors disappeared.

The reality was a quaint, cheerful little place, colored a reassuring weathered gray from the wind off the Sound. The door was painted a cheerful white to match the picket fence that bordered the yard. It was larger than one would expect, with a few gables and windows, peeking out from the upstairs loft.  There was a matching shed just visible around the corner of the house. A wrap-around porch, also painted in spotless white, looked out over the water. Severus noted, with a slight sigh, that his rocking chair was still in place.

He opened the slightly creaky gate, making a note to oil the hinges, and climbed the steps to the front door. It was unlocked.

He glanced down at Granger most reluctantly. For the second time in as many hours, he pondered waking her up. Again, he decided that Knocked-Out-Granger was better than Let-Me-See-How-Annoying-I-Can-Be-Granger. He chewed on his lower lip. Hades would freeze before he gave up the single bedroom to the twit, so he carted her upstairs to the attic, Summoned a cot from one side of the garret, and unceremonious dropped her under one of the windows.

He had unpacking to see to, after all.

~*~*~*~

_She smiled to herself, digging through her drawers for the second half of her cheerful red swimming suit. _Greece!_ Hermione thought to herself. The thought of two blissful weeks to herself—and her research—was enticing, but she couldn't ignore the small adolescent voice in her head that twittered over endless sun, the magnificent Mediterranean, and the dark Grecian men. A vacation. It was what she needed._

_She tapped her bottle of Muggle sunscreen—she had grown up on the stuff—with a sealing charm. It wouldn't do to have the oily white lotion emptying itself in her luggage. She pressed her last few things—a light jacket, for cool nights, and a pair of sandals—into her small tote and zipped it shut. She then turned to her desk, surveying the mess of parchment and reference books. She smiled in spite of herself, raking a stray curl from her eyes. "It's all going," she told Crookshanks ruefully. You'll have your sun bed back for two weeks."_

_The large window, looking out over the river, was dark now behind the airy curtains. Still, Hermione had spent hours at that desk, working at her independent research as the sunlight streamed through the thick panes and Crookshanks dosed on the window ledge. She reached out and idly stroked the ginger cat's head, eyes still on the piled-high papers. She was only a few weeks from being done; she could feel it. It made her shiver with excitement, with dread, with curiosity. She was nearly finished._

_She was gathering up the first few rolls of parchment when a small _pop!_ snagged her attention. Hermione opened her mouth, ready to give Ginny another scolding over her shoulder for interrupting her packing—for the third time, now, this evening—when she heard the words, strangely familiar in their aristocratic whine. "Accio wand!" Her wand flew from the pocket of her shirt, whizzing across the cozy living room._

_Hermione turned, as if in slow motion, to see Draco Malfoy maliciously snapping the lovely ash wand in half. The dragon heartstring core flared a brilliant crimson for a moment—_I always wondered what that would look like_, she thought to herself numbly—and then hissed angrily and went black._

_The pieces of her broken wand fell to the floor of the flat, and the sound resonated in Hermione's ears._

She woke with a scream on her lips, clamping her fists to her mouth before she could cry out. Hermione lay on her little cot for a moment, her breath ragged and her face ashen, as she regained what little semblance of sanity she clung to. She had dozed off a few times, now, since her return. And the dreams always started immediately, at the beginning. Each time they progressed a bit further.

She was afraid to sleep again, though she snapped her eyelids shut against the strange room she now found herself in. The memory was burned fiercely into her retinas, into her skin. She felt the bile rising in her stomach.

It only got worse, after her wand disappeared. And sadly enough, it got worse very fast.

She was in the attic. He had put her, she realized, in the attic. It was shadowy when she reopened her eyes, but the room was lit by twin windows at either sides of the room. She was lying on a cot in that hideous yellow robe under one of these windows, which seemed to be tucked into the gables. The walls met at strange angles, sloping over her head.  She kicked her feet over the edge of the bed and stood up, glancing towards the pebbly shore and the quiet waves. Her hands gripped the window ledge tightly, her knuckles going white, as she stilled herself. She took another deep breath.

She wanted to go home. She wanted nothing more than to go home to her own bed, to her own books and her mismatched chairs beside the window. She wanted to sit with Crookshanks—oh, Crookshanks!—in her lap while she sipped a cup of tea and read from the reassuring Austin she had devoured as a young girl. She wanted her own clothes back, her slippers, her toothbrush.

She realized, with a rather sickening jolt, that all she had to her name was a pair of school issue stockings and under things that Madame Pomfrey had given her. Not to mention the tattered Hufflepuff Quidditch robe. _Not even Gryffindor, _she thought illogically, blinking back the burning sensation behind her eyes. _They could have at least given me a Gryffindor robe._

She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane, continued her steady breathing exercises, and tried not to think about what she was going to do with herself.

It was a long moment before she managed to cross the near-empty loft towards the staircase. It was obvious that Snape, in his summer holidays, hadn't visited the attic often. It felt ridiculous, but she was thankful for that. She would make it her own—though she had no idea how—if it was the last thing she did. She needed something of her own. She gripped the banister tightly and descended the bare wooden steps.

Snape was not in the living room, though one of the lamps had been left lighted. In fact, it appeared as if he were not in the cottage at all. She did a few quick calculations, judging that she had been asleep for perhaps four hours. He had already unpacked. His vast collection of books lined the two of the long walls of the living room. There was a vase of wildflowers—oddly enough—on the mantle of the fireplace. It was a warm enough evening, so the fireplace was empty, but the room was still well lighted. There were two comfortable-looking chairs in front of the fireplace, and there was a simple table and two chairs. The hardwood floors were unadorned except for a small braided rug in blue and green in front of the hearth. The curtains were still open, and a large bank of windows looked out over the Sound. There was a porch, from what Hermione could see, that wrapped around the entirety of the house.

She began her exploration cautiously, once convinced that Snape was out. (She felt a tremor of uncertainty at realizing that she had been left alone, but that passed quickly.) She peeked into the bedroom that was off of the living room, shutting the door quickly. Just as the loft would be her space, she decided, she would not step within Snape's own territory. There was a small bathroom adjacent to the living room as well, with another door that seemed to lead to the bedroom. There were a few dusty closets she did not spend too much time pondering over.

From the living room she moved into the kitchen. There was a pleasant little fireplace in the kitchen as well. There were clean, slate counters and plenty of cabinets, and the hardwood seemed to continue throughout the house. There was an old farmhouse kitchen table and, again, two chairs. The hideous flower pot, the housewarming gift from Dumbledore that Hermione had forgotten about, sat on the ledge of the window over the large porcelain sink.

Her pragmatic self admired the Muggle outfitting. A gas stove. She had always liked cooking at a gas stove. She had learned early on how to conjure a quick meal with the flick of a wand, but Hermione knew that it was never quite the same.

There were a few other large, mostly empty rooms, one that looked suspiciously like the beginning of a potions lab. There was an airy sunroom on one side of the house. All in all, it was larger—and far more comfortable—than Hermione had dared to expect.

She returned to the kitchen, drawing the curtains as the dusk turned to dark. She felt oddly alone in the empty, bare house. It was furnished, and clean, but it hardly felt lived in. She felt like an intruder. Her stocking feet slid easily over the smooth floors, and she slipped quietly along in the strange cottage, silent and wary.

She yawned. She was still tired—achingly so—but the thought of returning to the little cot and the inevitable nightmares made her stomach turn. She got up from her seat at the kitchen table and began to inspect the contents of the cupboards.

"Are you looking for something?"

She let out a startled gasp, the cupboard door falling shut with a small thud as she glanced towards the doorway. Snape. The backdoor, leading from the porch to the kitchen, was still slightly ajar. He gave her a strange look.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

He shut the door. "Oh, don't lie, Miss Granger. You did, and you're not at all sorry." She gripped the cool countertop with pale, shaking fingers. He had a point. She nodded her head slightly and stared at him for a long moment. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

He sighed. He was stilling wearing his Hogwarts robes, and they looked oddly out of place in the small, bright kitchen. "What, indeed, Miss Granger?" He gave her an exasperated frown. "What were you looking for?"

Her cheeks colored faintly. She hadn't known, until she was on tiptoe and riffling through the top cabinet, that she was looking for something in particular. She wet her lips nervously. "I- I was wondering if…" He shifted his weight impatiently. "I was wondering if you had any sleeping draughts."

His lips curled sardonically. "You haven't show any difficulty sleeping as far as I've noted, Miss Granger. Quite the opposite." She bristled defensively and willed herself to take a steadying breath. Oh, but that man was awful. She merely set her chin again and waited. He studied her for a long moment before turning on his heel and swooping down the hall.

She returned to the kitchen table, dropped into one of the chairs, and let her head fall into her hands. This was hell, and she was doomed. She did not know how she was going to live with that man.

She would not cry. She _would not cry._

A few moments later, however, he was there in the kitchen, dropping a sealed bottle of something on the table. He turned and left before her hands managed to untangle themselves from the bushy brown locks. A neat tag, labeled "Dreamless Sleep" by some tidy hand, was pasted across the deep green glass.

She wordlessly plucked the bottle from the table, stood, and headed towards the staircase. He was not in the living room, and the door to his bedroom was shut. She climbed the stairs silently, groped at the window for curtains that did not exist, and straightened the blankets. She peeled her canary-yellow robe over her head and left it in a heap beside the bed. She tipped back the bottle without hesitation and crawled into her cot.

She still did not cry. She merely buried her face in her pillow and let the potion slow her breathing. It was a very relaxing thing, drugging one's self, and Hermione fully intended to make the most of it. The bottle was still very nearly full of the thick, iridescent liquid. She fell asleep calculating, groggily, the number of days she could stay in bed.

~*~*~*~

Six, apparently. Close to a full week, and Granger had not so much as appeared downstairs once in all of Severus's time inside. He found himself pausing in his reading, occasionally, to listen intently to the sounds of the little cottage. He had heard the telltale creak of the stairs that first night, as she disappeared up into her loft. He had heard her soft footsteps passing over the bare floorboards, directly over his own bedroom. He had heard the squeak of the cot as she crawled into bed, and then he heard nothing more for six blissfully quiet days.

He had paused, once, at the foot of the stairs, one hand already resting on the banister. Should he check on her, he wondered, or simply let the silly girl wear out her supply of Dreamless Sleep? While it wasn't entirely harmless, he seemed confident that she wouldn't overdose on the foul potion, no matter how much she downed.

He decided to wait.

It was August, after all, and the island was alive with color and crisp summer brightness. He spent most of his mornings outdoors, sitting on the porch or strolling down to the waterside. He had lunch at the kitchen table, alone, and spent his afternoons setting the house in order. He finished unpacking the last of his personal things, reordering his sparse, clean bedroom. He set up his potions laboratory; it was the smallest of the rooms in the house, with the smallest of the windows and the darkest shades. Light, he was afraid, tended to have damaging effects. He spent four hours meticulously ordering his supply cabinets and unpacking glassware.

He thought only occasionally of the drugged creature in his attic. His mouth pursed, slightly, as he lined the Erlenmeyer flasks along one of the clean shelves. He didn't doubt that there were things the girl would rather not face, but he knew from experience that nightmares only grew worse with suppression. _She'll have to learn that on her own_, Severus decided sharply.

He was also mildly curious to see how long it took her to catch on, in one of her brief periods of waking, to the lesser-known side effects—however innocent—of repetitive use of the Dreamless Sleep. For the most part, however, Severus allowed himself to think of this brief hiatus as yet another week of vacation. He had the house to himself, as far as he was concerned, and that made him a very happy man indeed.

And then he went shopping in the little town on the eastern rim of the tiny island, set snuggly inside a small harbor. He visited the grocery first, taking away three very sturdy paper bags full of vitals. He was on his way out of town when he noticed the clothing shop on the corner. He paused, thinking of Granger's rather frail little form, and then continued stormily down the street.

She was a bloody nuisance.

At about the same time that Severus Snape was stomping along the country road, said nuisance was waking up with a rather worrying headache and dulled wit. She tried to remember if she had read anything about repetitive use of the Dreamless Sleep potion in her medimagic textbooks.

The fact that it took her a good long time to remember made her palms sweat. If there was anything to keep Hermione Granger off the Dreamless Sleep, it was the threat of a blunted intellect. Hating the dazed stupor that seemed to grow a bit longer and a bit foggier with each waking, she tucked the bottle under her cot and wearily crawled out of bed.


	8. The Tense Transition

What the Thunder Said

Chapter Eight: The Tense Transition

Hermione glanced down at the pile of yellow silk on the floor and grimaced. She wrenched one of the blankets from the cot, wrapped it around her shoulders defensively, and tried to ignore the fact that her knees were shaking. Her stomach rumbled angrily, and she realized just how long it had been since she had had a square meal. She ran obsessively through her mantra in times of trouble, trying to recite the twelve uses of dragon's blood. 

She was missing four when she stepped away from the cot.

There was a more pressing need, though. She balanced precariously on the edge of the stairs before making her way down into the living room. Thankfully, Snape was nowhere in sight. She crossed the room to the one bathroom and stepped inside, quickly locking both doors.

She ran through her mantra again, tentatively. Only three gone, now.

The rest of the house was outfitted with Muggle appliances, and the bathroom seemed no different. Still, Hermione had to admire the loveliness of the little room. It was neither too small nor obscenely large, and the fixtures were clean and smooth. She swept aside the simple shower curtain and fiddled with some of the silver knobs for a moment. She then sat down on the porcelain toilet, cradling her throbbing head in her hands, and waited for the stream of water to warm up.

She bypassed the mirror completely.

She silently thanked whoever it was that had designed this bathroom, stepping past the shower curtain and into the tub. The water slicked her untamable hair to her scalp. She ran her fingers over the warm, sandstone-colored tiles. It glowed faintly golden, and the bathroom was awash in cream and white. It was very soothing.

She stood for a long time, merely letting the hot water pink her shoulders. The shower was in impeccable shape, clean and well ordered… a stark contrast to her own cluttered bathroom at her flat in Cambridge. Still, there were some realities that placed her dingy little water closet over the creature comforts of this relative spa.

Namely: her own shampoo. It was with some trepidation that Hermione reached for the square, green-glass bottles lined up on one of the built-in shelves. She unstoppered the first unmarked bottle, setting the cork aside and glancing down into the shimmering depths. The scent was familiar: evergreen, with a touch of something spicy and clean and pungent. She examined the rest of the bottles in turn before biting back a rough laugh and reaching for the simple block of soap.

That bleak, terrible, annoying man of a potions master brewed his own toiletries.__

~*~*~*~

Severus entered through the backdoor, as was his habit, and the screen door swung shut behind him. He placed his brown paper bags, loaded with groceries, on to one of the cool countertops. He paused, however, as he listened to the water running through the plumbing. He stepped into the living room and glanced first at the stairs, and then at the bathroom door.

He breathed a faintly annoyed sigh, convinced that _she _would use up all of the hot water, and paced back into the kitchen. He was sorely tempted to run the kitchen faucet at full blast, flush a toilet, and start the dishwasher. He managed to control himself, but only just

He set to putting away his—yes, _his_, thank you very much—groceries. Stowing a block of French cheese, Severus mildly reminded himself that the grocery store in town was small but sufficient. San Domingo was only a brief ferry ride away from the larger San Juan Island, after all, and the town itself was merely slightly smaller than Friday Harbor. This soothed his nerves. The grocer was a friendly man, the town was quaint, and it seemed as if the Americans fawned over anyone with a British accent.

It was a small, affluent, quiet little community. He liked it. Besides, Severus was allowed his Brie.

The brown paper bags neatly folded and stored in one of the drawers, he reached for the heavy kettle. He stood at the kitchen sink, cold water drumming against the empty walls of the steel kettle, and gazed out the large window at the water. Granger was up, then. He ran his tongue over his teeth in a thoughtful manner. He hadn't heard more than a stirring from his attic for the past few days. While uncomfortably aware of the girl's presence, Severus had let himself slip into quiet denial. He had a few days of peace, and he made the most of them.

Somehow, it made it even worse knowing that the foolish twit of a child had decided to rejoin society.

_Society. _Laughable, that!

He paced across the living room to his own bedroom, picking, from his wardrobe, his least favorite pair of trousers and a cotton shirt. He reached for his wand and cast a quick Transfiguration spell. He had never excelled at the subject, and while Minerva would no doubt have managed to turn a goose feather into a ball gown, he liked starting with something familiar.

He didn't have much experience with women's Muggle clothing, so he merely reduced the size a bit and told himself, roughly, that the silly chit would have to make do. He closed his eyes as he reluctantly Transfigured a pair of socks into undergarments.

Damn the girl.

He stomped back into the kitchen just as the kettle was beginning to hum.

~*~*~*~

It felt sinfully good to be clean—really, truly clean—after all that time. Hermione reached for a fresh towel, admiring its weight and size before tucking it under her arms. She was careful not to make too close an examination of her body while she thoroughly dried her pink skin. She felt slightly tipsy, and she wasn't sure if it was from the hot water or the sleeping draught. Stepping out of the bathtub, she sat down heavily on the soft carpet that covered a piece of the tiled floor.

She realized, with a thankful jolt, that her mind was unfogging.

She ran a hand through her hair, her knees drawn up to her chest under the tent of the towel. She had been too quick to laugh at Snape's concoctions, she realized, though she doubted she would be telling _him _that any time soon. Her hair was smooth and her skin tingled faintly. She hitched up the large towel, draping it around her shoulders to keep from shivering in the cool air.

Hermione gradually regained her balance, crawling to her feet reluctantly. She secured the towel as best she could; it was larger than she was accustomed to, and even pulled up over her shoulders it hung easily to her knees. She plucked her discarded sheet from the floor and balled it up, tucking it under one arm. She timidly cracked open the door, a curtain of steam following her into the living room. She was happy to note that Snape was nowhere to be seen. There were auspiciously loud bangs coming from the kitchen.

She missed the little bundle on the floor at first, catching her foot on the fabric. She glanced down at it for a long moment, her reactions still slightly delayed by the mind-numbing effects of prolonged use of the Dreamless Sleep. She picked up the bundle hesitantly and hurried upstairs.

She dropped her sheet on the floor; while Hermione Granger was notoriously organized in her studies, she was surprisingly lax about her own personal surroundings. She was tidy only where she needed to be. She, for one, had never understood the need to make ones bed when one intended to muss the covers again at the end of the day.

She dropped the bundle on the bed, hitching up her towel with compulsive fingers. Hermione unfolded the cotton shirt, first: white, long-sleeved. A man's shirt, really, but it looked like it had been reduced in size. _Transfiguration._ She fingered the soft material carefully. She didn't recognize a Muggle label in the nape. In fact, she didn't find a label at all. Handmade. Extraordinary.

Sandwiched between the trousers and the shirt was a bundle of underwear. She blushed, trying to imagine her Potions professor bothering with "mindless wand waving" in order to fashion her a pair of panties. Still, she hadn't quite thought beyond her shower, and he had been conscious enough to recognize she needed _something _to wear.

_I would have been "conscious enough" if he hadn't drugged me, _she thought sharply. It wasn't particularly accurate, Hermione knew, but it felt good to direct a bit of bitterness in Snape's direction.

She finished drying her pink skin perfunctorily, ignoring her body as much as she could. The underwear was a bit loose, as was the undershirt. She had to roll up the sleeves of the cotton work shirt, pushing them up to her elbows. She buttoned it up automatically, the shirttails hanging to mid-thigh. She left the last button undone and then reached for the khaki pants.

Hermione Granger had never expected Snape, of all people, to own these sorts of cloths. It was hard to untangle him from the billowy-robed, somber black bat-slash-man creature of the dungeons. It was obvious that the shirt and pants were his; they were a man's cut, and while clean, they smelled faintly of evergreen.

Typical.

She filed this—wearing Severus Snape's underwear—under "Things to Tell Harry and Ron When This is All Over." They would never let her live it down.

Wearing Severus Snape's underwear. 

Followed closely by:

Using Severus Snape's shampoo—which, yes, does exist, and Dying, but not really. 

That thought sobered her. Harry and Ron thought she was dead, as did every schoolmate she had made and nearly all of her professors and her coworkers. Her mother and her father thought she was dead. She pushed them from her mind and set to hitching the pants about her waist.

The trousers were loose, and they nearly slid off her hips after she finished with the row of buttons. She tucked in her shirt and cuffed the pant legs, rolling the waistband once. Her pale feet poked out from under the cuffed hem, toes visible against the smooth hardwood floors. She sighed and sat down on the edge of her stripped bed.

She toweled her hair dry as best she could and then went downstairs.

~*~*~*~

Severus had never been one of those men that found a woman wearing his own clothes particularly erotic. Especially not when the girl happened to be pale, sickly, skinny little Muggle-born know-it-all.

"Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape."

She was standing at the foot of the stairs, her bare feet on the last step, and he was sitting in the living room with his cup of tea and a crisp tome. The terse, perfunctory greetings out of the way, he desperately hoped that she would leave him alone. He turned back to his book—a relatively modern thesis on the titration of mermaids' tears—and hope that she would take the hint.

She wavered for a moment—he watched her from the corner of his eye—standing almost perfectly still at the base of the stairs. She then padded into the kitchen. The lines around his pale mouth loosened and he devoted his attention once again to the chapter on the acidic properties of the bodily secretions from the Adriatic species of merfolk. Fascinating stuff, really.

He was vaguely aware of her rooting around in his kitchen—yes, his, thank you very much—and hoped that she wouldn't eat too much. As much as he liked his grocer, Severus did not fancy another trip into town for the evening. With his luck, though, she would gobble all of his cheese without a second thought to the fact that it was he who had stocked the shelves in the first place.

To his surprise, she reappeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room only a few moments later. Instead of wielding a block of Brie, she cradled a small cup of tea between her palms. And then she thumped her way across the floor and sat down in one of the simple little armchairs directly across from him.

She was more foolish than he had thought. With an irritated sigh, Severus snapped his book shut and placed it on the coffee table.

"What, pray tell, do you need now, Miss Granger?"

She raised her chin a bit at the tone of his voice, and he noticed then the unbearable resemblance she still bore to her eleven-year-old self. She looked for all the world like a cocky first year, challenging her teachers when she should have been patiently stirring her cauldron. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your reading, Professor."

He highly doubted that, and said as much with a signature snort. He gave her a sharp look. "You are wasting my time. Hurry up; what is it you wish to bother me with now?"

She faltered momentarily, now put to the task of actually articulating whatever it was that was bothering her silly mind. Severus put his book aside and rested his elbows on the armrests, steepling his long fingers. He regarded her impatiently, fixing her with a look he had perfected in his classroom.

The Granger girl rallied herself and forged ahead. "I wish to discuss the situation at hand, Professor Snape," she declared at long last. Severus rolled his dark eyes, but she forged ahead before he could get a snide remark in edgewise. "I believe we have much to discuss. Don't you?" There was a challenge in her voice, as well as a barely perceptible line of fear. She took a sip of her tea.

"Is that my Earl Grey?" he asked suspiciously then, glowering at the cup she cradled in her hands. He fixed her with an icy look. "You have never respected my store room, but I would appreciate it, Miss Granger, if you would not steal from my personal tea stores."

That began the set of strange, uncomfortable conversations in the little house by the water.

~*~*~*~

That afternoon, in the living room:

Grudgingly, from Hermione: "Thank you for the clothes."

 "Do not thank me; there was no alternative. I had no desire to have you plodding around in a towel in my house. You might have been more considerate."

"As though I had a choice. Unless you prefer the Hufflepuff robe?"

"Don't press your luck, Miss Granger. There is a trunk of things in the attic, I believe, that belonged to Albus's cousin. You should have looked."

"Hmph."

"Leave me alone."

"Gladly."

~*~*~*~

"Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape."

"I had rather thought you had retired for the evening."

"I thought it too cruel to deprive you of my company, my dear Professor."

"Again, please leave."

"A shame you can't deduct House points, now, isn't it?"

~*~*~*~

After a careful knock at Snape's bedroom door:

"Miss Granger—and this is very important—do not _ever _bother me in my bedroom."

"Touchy. May I ask you a question?"

"Will you leave if I say no?"

"Of course not. What do we do now?"

"I was planning on finishing my book in the privacy of my own rooms, but it appears that you have other plans."

"Well, our lives here seems somehow more important than—what is it that you're reading?—ah, yes, _mermaid tears_."

"What do you want to know now, Miss Granger?"

"Is it safe to leave the house?"

"Yes. Please do."

"And the wards…?"

"Only on the property. But there are precautions that can be made."

"Is there a town?"

"Yes."

"Muggle?"

"Bravo, Miss Granger. Hogwart's best and brightest. Such hope I have for the future of the wizarding world."

~*~*~*~

"Have you examined the wards?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't look at me like that."

"Yes, then, Miss Granger, I have examined the wards."

"And…?"

"Unplottable."

"And…?"

"Do you ever give up?"

"No."

"We're quite safe, Miss Granger. Now, should I read you a bedtime story, sing you a lullaby, and tuck you in?"

~*~*~*~

Later, in the kitchen, over a tense, cold dinner:

"Miss Granger, if you could _please _restrain yourself from that infernal smacking. I would have thought the Muggles would have taught you proper table manners."

"Oh, shut up. I have impeccable manners."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Don't treat me like a child."

"I will not point out the obvious. And as to my previous comment… Let me amend that: don't talk at _all_."

~*~*~*~

The next morning:

"None of the clothes fit."

"What?"

"None of Professor Dumbledore's cousin's clothes fit."

"Fix them."

"I can't."

"After seven years of the finest education in Britain, Miss Granger, you presume to tell me you can't alter a simple gown?"

"First of all, I have had far more than seven years of education, Professor. And secondly, unless you have forgotten, I have not got a wand anymore."

"Oh, the poor, poor helpless Miss Granger. Where _is _your common sense? Do it the conventional way."

"I don't know how to sew."

"What is happening to domesticity in our culture?"

"Be careful, Professor. Very careful."

~*~*~*~

"Have we any neighbors?"

"I don't know. And if we do, I hardly expect they'd want an annoying little creature like you banging down their door to borrow sugar and chat their ears off."

"The 'I don't know' would have sufficed."

~*~*~*~

"You are the epitome of the Ministry worker, Miss Granger."

"How so?"

"Bossy and annoying, ever-present and absolutely useless."

~*~*~*~

"Oh, my! It seems to me I've accidentally dropped this lovely block of Brie into the disposal! Oh! And there goes the tin of Earl Grey! Hermione, old girl, you're such a clumsy little thing! Ever so sorry, Professor Snape! Must be the remnants of that smashing potion you gave me kicking in."

~*~*~*~

"You're unbearable."

"I assure you, the feeling is mutual. Let's not talk anymore than we have to."

"Quite possibly the first sane, sensible thing I've heard from you in forty-eight hours, Miss Granger."

~*~*~*~

For Severus Snape, a man accustomed to his privacy, it was a taxing two days. He had spent years cultivating his temper, though, and he unleashed the full fury of his cutting tongue on his unsuspecting victim. It was a small sliver of joy in his bleak existence.

And for Hermione Granger—cautious, brilliant, and reasonable—took the bait. On some level, she was comforted by this acerbic conversation. It was morbidly reassuring. And on another level entirely it wore her down inside, it made her chest ache, and it made her long all the more for the easy company of those she had lost.

Luckily, both the Bat and the Cat had someone to blame for their misery: snowy-haired, sky-blue-eyed, lemon-drop-scented Albus Dumbledore.

Snape decided that someday, somehow, that meddlesome wizard would hear of this. Hermione decided that, even if Dumbledore were the world's strongest wizard, he wouldn't last long against her hair-pulling techniques and the sharpened nails of a Very Angry Witch.


End file.
